


The Case of the Number Game

by EscapistAz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Neither involving John and Sherlock.), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscapistAz/pseuds/EscapistAz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's return, he and John are faced with the task of rebuilding and even redefining their relationship. A phone call from Lestrade disrupts their new-found contentment and sets them on a chase after a killer who seemingly strikes at random, leaving a perplexing "calling card" at the scene of each crime.</p><p>(As of April 6, 2016, this work is now completed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

The re-integration of John and Sherlock into each other’s lives after the Fall was anything but seamless. John had spent the first two weeks after Sherlock’s “death” in a complete daze, not leaving the flat, and hardly speaking to anyone. Then he slowly began to resume living, as best he could under the circumstances. He got a job at a local clinic, as a means to both support and distract himself. When his mind was unoccupied, it had a tendency to wander. More and more often, he’d found it had meandered to a conclusion that he’d been trying to avoid for a long time; he was in love with Sherlock. 

It had taken John’s perceived loss of Sherlock for him to admit his more-than-flatmates feelings for Sherlock to himself. But, Sherlock’s sudden reappearance threw off the delicate emotional balance John had reached. John allowed Sherlock to move back into Baker Street, but for the first month or so, they barely spoke. John went to work, came home, and spent a good chunk of his free time on his laptop, ostensibly blogging. Sherlock spent large amounts of time away from the flat, doing god-knows-what, although a fresh carton of milk would inexplicably appear in the fridge whenever the current one was nearly empty. John tried his hardest to delete Mycroft’s texts about Sherlock’s ‘danger nights’ as soon as they came in. Outwardly, John ignored them, but on those nights, Sherlock would come home and complain that his sock index was out of order.

There had not been a single case since Sherlock’s return. Actually, as far as John could tell, there had been several. But it appeared that none of them had been interesting enough to warrant Sherlock’s attention. On more than one occasion, John had overheard Sherlock on the phone, with whom he could only assume was Lestrade, explaining why he couldn’t possibly take on whatever case had arisen. John could tell Sherlock was simply inventing reasons for not taking the cases. He just wasn’t sure why.

One night, a particularly nasty rainstorm was drenching Baker Street, and the water was running down the glass of 221B’s windows in wide streams, warping the view from either side of the panes. Inside, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his legs tucked up underneath him, shouting at the telly, as John sat across the room, typing on his laptop. Sherlock was trying to distract himself with what John called ‘crap telly,’ and it wasn’t working. 

Without a word, Sherlock got up, crossed the room, and pressed his lips to the side of John’s neck. He froze as he felt John flinch underneath him. Several emotions crossed John’s face in the space of a moment. The very air seemed to still, and the seconds lengthen, as Sherlock waited for John to react. John stopped typing, and a long moment passed. A huge crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes, but neither of them seemed to notice. 

Sherlock feared he’d made a mistake, miscalculated the signals he’d been getting from John between the bouts of iciness since his return. John rose from the chair, his hands curled into fists. Sherlock was sure his fears were confirmed as he waited for John to strike him. However, John simply grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt, and slowly leaned closer to him until their lips touched. Sherlock’s lips were soft against John’s, just the way he’d imagined.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered when they broke apart, his voice barely louder than the sound of the raindrops against the windowpanes.

“I _buried_ you,” John replied, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

They spent the next few weeks testing out this new facet of their relationship. The first time John took Sherlock to bed, it was a new experience for both of them. John had never been with a man, and Sherlock had never been with anyone. John knew things wouldn’t be smooth sailing forever, if that was what they were. They didn’t mention the Fall again, although John had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to avoid the subject forever. Still, he tried his best to forget it for the time being.

Exactly two months after their first kiss and Sherlock’s apology, John awoke to the sound of a crash coming from the kitchen. He hurriedly slipped t-shirt over his head and went out into the living room. He saw Sherlock crouched on the kitchen floor, sweeping the shattered remains of a beaker into the dustpan. John hoped the beaker had been empty when it had hit the floor.

“Are you okay?” John asked, walking around the other side of the table to the fridge.

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock replied absently. He dumped the shards of glass into the bin and returned his attention to the microscope without another glance in John’s direction.  
John opened the fridge, and was relieved to find that it was completely devoid of body parts. But then again, he wasn’t surprised, because it had been awhile since Sherlock had had a case. John put the kettle on and made some toast. Once the toast was done, he put butter and jam on it, and placed one slice on a plate next to Sherlock, although he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be touched. 

John wondered vaguely what Sherlock was working on before making his way into the living room. He looked over at the telly to find that it was tuned to an American soap opera. John watched for a moment as the main character, whose name John couldn’t be bothered to remember- Doctor Handsome, or something to that effect- was standing in an elevator with a woman. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he quickly pressed her up against a wall as they began to kiss passionately. John rolled his eyes and changed the channel.

Once he finished eating, John went into the kitchen to do the dishes. He noticed that half of Sherlock’s toast was gone and decided to leave it there for the time being. He finished the dishes quickly and dried his hands. He was just about to leave the room to get dressed for work when Sherlock’s mobile began to ring. Sherlock sighed and let it ring four times before picking it up.

“Yes?” said Sherlock, pausing to listen for a few seconds. “I already told you; the wife is lying. She only--” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is this a new case? Are you sure?” Another pause. “Fine. Give us a half hour.” Sherlock hung up, and slipped the phone into his pocket.

“What’s happened?” John asked.

“That was Lestrade. They’ve found a body.”

John sighed.

“And this case piques your interest enough?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer, and simply reached for his coat.

“Just let me get dressed and phone the clinic to let them know I won’t be in today.”

Five minutes later, John was back downstairs, dressed and stuffing his mobile into his trouser pocket. They headed outside, and Sherlock knotted his scarf around his neck before hailing a cab. Once they were seated in the backseat of the car and Sherlock had given the driver the address, John looked over at his flatmate-slash-boyfriend-thing and wondered what was going on, although he knew better than to ask.

The cab let them out in front of a pretty nondescript two-story building. The only thing remotely notable about it was the window-boxes on the ground-floor windows. They were overflowing with well-kept red impatiens. Sherlock examined the plants momentarily before approaching Lestrade, who was standing on the front stoop with his arms folded across his chest. 

“She’s inside,” said Lestrade, turning and walking into the building. He led Sherlock and John down a short corridor to a doorway that was criss-crossed with crime scene tape. The three of them ducked under the tape and entered the flat labelled ‘1A.’ Lestrade stopped walking once they reached the sitting room. Two members of the crime scene unit were bent over, examining a figure lying in a reclining chair.

“Who’s the victim?” John asked, pulling on the pair of rubber gloves Lestrade had passed him.

“Agatha Bates, 63, lived alone in this flat with one cat. Molly is examining the cat, in case he bit or scratched the assailant. The victim’s daughter found the body. She had to be sedated and taken to St. Bart’s, so you won’t be able to talk to her until later, or possibly tomorrow,” said Lestrade.

“Cause of death?”

“Anaphylaxis.”

“Anaphylaxis? Then what makes you think this is a homicide?” John asked, glancing from Lestrade to Sherlock. He noticed a slight smirk tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s lips.

“Ms. Bates was severely allergic to walnuts according to her daughter, and we found one lodged, whole, in her trachea. And there’s also this,” Lestrade said, turning and stepping closer to the body, the two crime scene techs moving out of his way. He reached down with one gloved hand and shifted the neckline of Agatha’s blouse a little bit, revealing the number ‘2’ that had been carved into the skin near her her collarbone. Sherlock bent down to examine the cut with his magnifier. 

“The cut was made post-mortem with a serrated blade ten to fifteen centimeters in length. Is there anything obviously missing from her kitchen? If the killer used one of her knives, the mark could have been an afterthought. But why a two?” Sherlock asked. Both John and Lestrade shrugged.

“This is the first case that’s come across my desk where the victim’s had a number carved into their skin,” said Lestrade. 

“Why a two?” Sherlock muttered, seemingly to himself.

“There were no stray fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, so she might have known the person who killed her.”

“There’s also no defensive wounds,” said Sherlock. “If someone were trying to shove an object down your throat, to which you were very allergic, wouldn’t you attempt to prevent them from doing so? She must have been incapacitated in some way,” said Sherlock. He glanced down at the coffee table, at the pair of teacups sitting amidst the various gardening magazines scattered across its surface. “And something tells me you’ll find the answer to that little portion of the mystery in her teacup.”

He turned and left the room without another word. John sighed.

“I’ll ask Molly to send a copy of the autopsy report over as soon as it’s finished,” said Lestrade, scribbling something down on a notepad.

“What’s her daughter’s name?” John asked.

“Krista. Chances are she’s not lucid yet, though. It’s only been about an hour and a half,” said Lestrade, glancing at his watch. John nodded, figuring that everyone would be better off if he were the one to talk to Agatha’s daughter, as opposed to Sherlock.

John exited Agatha’s flat and took a cab back to Baker Street. Faced with the prospect of what could be several hours of downtime, John elected to boot up his laptop and flesh out what they knew so far. It wasn’t a whole lot, but he knew they had to start somewhere. He wondered vaguely where Sherlock was, before figuring he’d find out when he needed to. As soon as his laptop was ready, John sat down at the table, cracked his knuckles, and started typing.

 

Sherlock walked impatiently from one end of the room to the other and back again. He was at the morgue at St. Bart’s, alternating between pacing and hovering over Molly’s shoulder as she began performing Agatha’s autopsy. Sherlock stopped pacing momentarily and took out his magnifier. He bent down to examine Agatha’s face, noting that both her tongue and throat were swollen, supporting Lestrade’s statement concerning her cause of death.

Molly placed her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go home, Sherlock,” she told him. “I’ll send the photos and report over as soon as I can.” Sherlock nodded, and turned to leave the morgue. 

He had no intention of returning to Baker Street yet. Not when someone out there was being so morbidly interesting. Once Sherlock was outside, he hailed a cab and gave the driver Agatha’s address.

When the car pulled up outside Agatha’s building, he immediately noticed something was missing. The impatiens were gone. Sherlock approached the building and examined the now-empty window boxes, carefully stepping around the small heaps of dirt that littered the pavement beneath them. The soil inside each box itself was riddled with jagged divots where it seemed the plants had been torn out by the roots. 

Sherlock scowled slightly. He couldn’t immediately fathom why someone would be so quick to remove Agatha’s plants, when rigor mortis hadn’t even completely set in yet. He pulled a small plastic container out of his pocket and bent down to scoop up a bit of the dirt from the pavement. As Sherlock straightened up, he pocketed the container and dusted off his hands before opening the door and stepping into the front corridor of Agatha’s building.

The door to Agatha’s flat was still covered with yellow crime scene tape. Sherlock tried the door and was agitated that it was locked. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and thought for a moment. An idea formed in his head, and he took out his mobile and dialed. 

“Lestrade?” Sherlock began. “Which flat is the landlord’s? Thanks.”

Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket and walked down to the door labelled ‘1C.’ He raised his hand, rapped his knuckles against the mottled grey wood of the door, and waited. A few seconds later, the door opened and Sherlock found himself face-to-face with a man he assumed was the landlord. Sherlock sniffed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” he began, “I was wondering if you could let me into Agatha Bates’ flat for a moment.” The landlord eyed him suspiciously. “I’m Jack, Krista’s husband,” Sherlock continued, offering the man his hand. “There was a book of photos Krista wanted to use for… for the funeral. I know she’d really appreciate it if you could help us out.”

The landlord continued to eye Sherlock for a few more seconds, and then stepped past him into the corridor, shutting his door behind him. He said nothing as he pulled a wad of keys out of his pocket and jiggled it around in his hand until he found the right one.

“Lock it again on your way out.” The landlord said, unlocking the door and turning to head back to his flat.

“Thank you so much,” said Sherlock. 

The landlord made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and then he was gone.

Sherlock opened the door to Agatha’s flat, ducking under the police tape as he went. Particles of dust swirled in the rays of sunlight coming in through the windows, stirred by the draft accompanying Sherlock’s entry. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, so he figured he would start with the chair in which she’d been found. 

There was no indication that a woman had died there. Once the body had been taken to the morgue, someone had closed the recliner. Sherlock sighed. He’d been hoping to find something helpful in the exact place where she’d died. The two teacups were still sitting on the coffee table, one completely empty, the other still half full. He bent down to sniff at the liquid remaining in the cup. At first, there was only the scent of tea, but then he noticed a faint hint of what seemed like dish soap.

_Ketamine_ , he thought.

 

Back at Baker Street, John was finished his third cup of tea and rereading his blog entry for what seemed like the fiftieth time. He placed the teacup in the saucer and glanced down at the clock in the lower right corner of his laptop screen. Enough time had passed that Krista should be lucid, assuming she hadn’t needed to be dosed a second time.  
John collected his jacket, wallet, keys, and mobile before leaving the flat.

“Hi, I’d like to see Krista Bates, please” John said to the nurse behind the front desk at St. Bart’s. She gave him an appraising look.

“You family?” she asked.

“No, but-”

“Then I can’t help you,” the nurse said, interrupting him. John sighed and started rooting around in his jacket pockets. He produced one of the police badges Sherlock had nicked from Lestrade and showed it to the nurse.

“My apologies, _Detective Inspector_ ,” she said, still sounding suspicious. “She’s in room 413. Wear this.” She handed John a ‘visitor’ sticker, on which she’d quickly scrawled ‘Greg Lestrade 413.’

“Thank you,” he said, placing the sticker on the front of his jacket. He turned to walk towards the elevator. He felt a bit odd having Lestrade’s name plastered on his chest, but he’d been improvising, so he simply had to deal with it. 

Once the elevator reached the fourth floor, John stepped out into the corridor, and started looking at the little plaques next to the doors with the room numbers emblazoned on them. He found room 413 down at the end of the wing. He knocked lightly on the door a few times, and waited. Through the frosted glass on the door, John saw a figure sit up from a horizontal position.

“Come in,” a voice answered, weakly. 

John opened the door slowly and entered the room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed was a woman whom John could only assume was Krista. She was wearing a set of nurse’s scrubs that were too big for her, and it looked like she hadn’t slept. John figured, aside from the time spent under the influence of the sedative, she hadn’t. John crossed the room and offered her his hand.

“So sorry to bother you,” he began. “I’m John Watson.”

“Krista Bates. But I guess you knew that. Are you with the police?”

John chewed his lip for a second.

“Sort of,” he said, then quickly changed the subject. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know. I went round her place earlier to pick up a book I had asked to borrow, and walked in to find her dead,” Krista replied, in little more than a whisper.  
As she had been speaking, John had pulled a small notepad out of one of his pockets to write down the things she was saying.

“Is there anyone you can think of who could have wanted to hurt your mother?”

“Nobody. She was a 63-year-old gardening enthusiast who was more interested in talking to her cat than most people.”

That definitely complicated things a bit. It would have been easier to find a lead if Agatha had an enemy of some kind. Although, John could hardly think what kind of enemies a woman her age could possibly have. He was drawn out of his thoughts when he realised that Krista was looking at him expectantly. She must have just asked him a question.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, a bit sheepishly.

“I asked whether you knew what happened to Jack,” said Krista, tucking a chunk of her hair behind her ear and avoiding John’s eyes.

“Jack?”

“Her cat.”

“Oh. The medical examiner--” he began.

“Medical examiner? He’s dead, too?!” Krista interjected, her voice rising in pitch.

“No no, he’s _fine_ ,” said John, raising his hands in an attempt at a calming gesture. “They just brought him in to take a look at him, in case he bit or scratched the person who killed your mother.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Would, um, would it be okay if I took him, once they finish with him, and once I get out of here?”

John smiled slightly at her.

“I see no reason why not,” he replied.

She actually smiled a little bit, too, as he said that.

John closed the notepad and placed it back in his pocket, along with the pen. He figured he should probably leave Krista alone to rest, and one glance out the window told him he’d been there longer than he thought. The sun was low in the sky, turning the clouds pink and casting long shadows. John rose from the chair and offered Krista his hand again.

“I won’t take up any more of your time,” he began. “Thanks for speaking with me.”

“Of course. I want to help find the person who killed my mother as much as I can.”

“Take good care of Jack,” said John, turning to leave the room.

 

The autopsy report that Molly had sent to Sherlock- along with the photos of the body and crime scene photos- confirmed his earlier suspicions. Molly had found traces of ketamine in Agatha’s blood, and that it had been mixed in with her tea. There was no evidence that epinephrine had been administered, further supporting the classification of her death as a homicide. Of course, Sherlock had never doubted it, ever since Lestrade had described the way the reaction had been triggered.

Sherlock was comparing the ketamine found in Agatha’s blood with that in her tea, for the sake of thoroughness, when John walked in. Sherlock didn’t look up from his samples as John hung up his jacket and joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

“The daughter didn’t know anything useful,” John began, leaning over to peck Sherlock on the cheek. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John. “The body, however, has told us quite a bit.”

When Sherlock returned his attention to the samples and gave no indication that he was going to say more, John frowned slightly.

“Care to share with the class?” he asked, resisting a sudden urge to put his hands on his hips.

The next few minutes passed with Sherlock explaining the contents of Molly’s report, and the non-events that took place during his trip to Agatha’s flat. When he mentioned how he’d gained entrance to her flat, John furrowed his eyebrows.

“You… posed as her husband?” he asked, frowning slightly as an inexplicable jolt of annoyance passed through him.

“For less than three minutes. I did what I had to,” replied Sherlock, neglecting to mention that he hadn’t even found anything of substance in her flat, aside from the ketamine, which had been along the lines of what he’d been expecting. 

Sherlock rose, intending to check something in one of his books. But, before he could do so, John grabbed him by the collar and crashed their mouths together. He slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth when his lips parted in surprise for an instant, before he closed his eyes and kissed back. They broke apart after a few moments, and John put his lips to the side of Sherlock’s throat, simultaneously pressing his hips forward. A soft sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips, and John smirked a little bit before sliding one hand down between their bodies. He ran his hand down across the front of Sherlock’s trousers.

“Shall I remind you who you really belong to?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

One week later , they weren't any closer to finding the identity of Agatha's killer. The crime scene and autopsy photos were tacked up around the mirror in the living room, along with notes scrawled on the scraps of paper. An envelope bearing Mycroft's handwriting had turned up, and Sherlock calmly impaled it with his switchblade, effectively pinning it to the wall next to one of the photos of the '2' that had been carved into Agatha's chest.

John tried his best to ignore the unpleasant sizzling noises coming from the kitchen as he read the paper. Sherlock's mobile began to ring and the sizzling stopped immediately. John looked up from his paper.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock began, and paused for a few seconds to listen. “Where?” Another pause. “Are you certain? Fine.” Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen, sliding his mobile into his trouser pocket.

“What's happened?” John asked.

“They've found another body. It appears to be connected to our current case.”

“The old woman? How?” Sherlock didn't answer, just simply put on his coat and scarf before staring expectantly at John. John sighed, folded up his paper, put on his jacket, and followed Sherlock out the door.

Once they arrived at the address Sherlock had given the cabbie, John paid and they climbed out of the car. Lestrade was waiting for them outside another unremarkable building, although this one had three stories. Lestrade said nothing as he lead them up to the second floor. It was strangely dark in the corridor, and Sherlock noticed that the curtains on the only window were dingy and grey. Both John and Sherlock were perplexed to discover that water was trickling down the stairs. Lestrade opened the the door at the top of the stairs, and they found themselves in a small, sparsely-furnished flat. The hunter green carpets were saturated with water, and the wallpaper was beginning to peel in places near the baseboard.

“What's with the water?” John asked.

“In here,” said Lestrade, gesturing to a door on their left. As soon as they entered the room, John’s question was answered. They were in the bathroom. Floating in the tub was the body of a young woman. She was fully clothed, and there were bloody scratch marks on the wall and the edge of the tub.

Right as John was about to ask how this could be connected to their current case, Lestrade approached the tub. He bent down and gingerly brushed a strand of the girl's hair away from her face. The number '5' had been carved into her right cheek. Sherlock squatted next to Lestrade and examined the wound with his magnifier.

“Post-mortem. Ten-to-fifteen centimetre long, serrated blade. Same as the old woman,” said Sherlock.

“Agatha,” John corrected him. Sherlock ignored John's statement.

“She was drowned?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, forcibly, as indicated by the marks on the walls,” Lestrade replied.

“Is all of the blood from her fingertips, or did she scratch her killer?” asked John.

“She must have scratched him. Her fingernails were cut post-mortem as well,” said Sherlock.

“How do you know that?”

“The blue polish on what remains of her nails is fresh. No woman cuts her nails to the quick just after getting them done.” Sherlock continued to examine the girl's hands, and the marks on the wall. John turned to Lestrade.

“Now that we know how she died; who is she?” he asked.

“Name's Mallory Jacobson. Nineteen. Lived here with her girlfriend, Megan Hill,” said Lestrade.

“Does Megan know?”

“I've been trying to phone her, but no answer.”

“Who found Mallory?”

“The bathtub leaked into the flat below, and the couple living down there informed the landlord. He came up to investigate and found the body.”

“Has anyone spoken to him?” John asked. He had a feeling he would soon be having another conversation similar to the one he'd had with Krista Bates.

Before Lestrade could answer, a police officer enter the foyer, lifting the yellow tape so that the young woman behind him could pass through the doorway.

“A crime scene?” John heard her ask. “What's happened?”

“Megan Hill?” Lestrade began. Megan ignored him, staring past John into the bathroom. Her eyes slowly widened, and John shifted imperceptibly, trying to block Mallory's body from view.

“Mal!” shouted Megan. She dashed forward and tried to get past John and into the bathroom. He grabbed her and took advantage of her split second of surprise to turn her around so she was facing the living room. She thumped John on the shoulder with her fist, and Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly as he saw John flinch.

“Finley, what were you thinking?” Lestrade asked the officer who had brought Megan in.

“Apologies sir. I thought they'd covered the body already,” the man answered. Lestrade shook his head and turned his attention back Megan.

Megan stopped trying to get past John. She buried her face in his jumper and cried, huge shuddering sobs that shook her entire frame. John awkwardly wrapped his arms around her.

Sherlock quickly grew impatient and began to examine the body again. If Mallory had scratched her attacker, there was a good chance that some of the blood on the wall was theirs. He stared momentarily at the number on her cheek, wondering what significance it bore. Another thing that confused him was the killer's decision to change his MO.

“Why move from forced anaphylaxis to drowning?” Sherlock muttered to himself. He also had a feeling that the autopsy would find no ketamine in Mallory's system; judging by the marks on the walls, Mallory had been conscious during her attack.

A few minutes later ,  Megan's sobs quieted and she slowly drew back from John. She turned and crossed the room to sit on the sofa. John sat down next to her.

“I'm sorry,” he said, Megan looked at him and pursed her lips.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Are you up to answering a few questions?”

“Not really, but I have a feeling that later won't be any better.” John nodded and took out his notepad.

“When was the last time you spoke to Mallory?”

“This morning before I left for work,” Megan replied, staring intently at her shoes.

“Did anything seem off, as though something was wrong?” Megan shook her head.

“Mal was so proud of herself this morning. She'd aced a really difficult term paper. Although , it was sort of odd that she didn't pick up my call around noon. We always talk on the phone during my lunch break, but today she didn't answer. I knew I should have come home for lunch today.” By her last sentence, Megan's voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Then you might have ended up the same way she did.”

“I'd be better off.”

“Don't say that. She would want you to go on.” John told her. He looked at the floor. He knew the feeling of wanting to die after losing a loved one. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on the matter at hand.

“She would but it's –“

“Hard. I know.” John's eyes flicked over to Sherlock, and then swiftly redirected the conversation. “Did she have any enemies? Or can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

“The only person I can think of is her step-brother, but I think you can count him out.”

“Why?”

“Last I heard, he was in San Quentin.”

“That would rule him out pretty effectively then. What about the rest of her family?” Megan wrung her hands.

“Mal was estranged from her parents. They, um... didn't approve of our relationship.” John frowned slightly.

“Could they possibly have disapproved so much that they might have wanted to hurt her?”

“No. If they were anything of the sort, I would be the one dead, not her,” said Megan. John nodded, jotting down the gist of everything she was saying. Then something occurred to him.

“Is there somewhere you can stay for awhile?” he asked. Forensics would have the flat sealed off for awhile, and John highly doubted that Megan wanted to stay in the place where her girlfriend had died anytime soon.

“Yeah, my sister lives near here. Oh, she'll be devastated. She and Mallory were friends. In fact, she was the one who... who introduced us.” Megan barely finished her sentence before she was sobbing again. John looked down at his notepad, feeling slightly awkward again.

“Okay, I think that’s enough questions for now,” said John. “You go and stay with your sister. We’ll phone you if there are any developments.” Megan nodded, and got up from the couch. Finley lifted the tape for her, and John could see that he was trying to speak to her, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

A half hour later, John and Sherlock were on their way back to Baker Street. At first John tried to relay everything Megan had said, but he soon realised that Sherlock was in one of his brooding moods, and clearly not paying attention. John considered saying something outrageous, both to confirm that Sherlock wasn’t listening, and to try to lighten the mood a little, but he thought better of it as the taxi pulled up outside 221B. In the past several days, pumpkins had begun to appear on neighbouring stoops, and John smiled slightly. Mrs. Hudson was always the one who decorated and dealt with any trick-or-treaters who showed up. John glanced at his watch to check the date. Hallowe’en was in nine days. 

After dinner, John booted up his laptop to update his blog and noticed an email from his supervisor at the clinic:  
  


_ John, _

_ We’re due to be swamped tomorrow, and you absolutely  _

_ need to come in. The clinic’s been pretty short-handed on the days  _

__ you haven’t been in. Please confirm receipt of this message.  
  


_ Sincerely, _

_ Kate Lansing _

 

John chewed his lip for a moment, staring at his laptop screen. Sherlock had intended for them to interview Mallory’s parents in the morning.

“Sherlock,” John began, looking over toward the kitchen, where Sherlock was examining the contents of a beaker he’d placed on the table.

“Hmm?” Sherlock responded, not taking his eyes off of the beaker.

“You’re going to have to deal with Mallory’s parents on your own. The clinic needs me tomorrow.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” said Sherlock, absently. John nodded and returned his attention to the email.  
  


_ Kate,  _ he typed.  
  


_ I’ll be in first thing in the morning. My apologies for being so  _

_ scarce as of late; some things have come up but I will _

__ definitely be in tomorrow.  
  


_ John Watson _

 

Once he sent the email, John opened a new window and set to work on a new blog entry. He’d been leaving the detail about the numbers carved into the victims’ skin out of his blog entries, as that was the bit of information that the police had decided to keep out of all the public channels.

As John began to type he felt a fresh wave of sympathy for Megan, but did his best to push it from his mind. He thought it best not to get emotionally invested in the cases, however hard it might be. The entry about Mallory’s death was already turning out to be longer than the first bit he’d written about Agatha. But once he finished transcribing the overall gist of his notes onto his blog, John’s train of thought sort of fizzled out. He’d intended to add some of his own thoughts, but nothing of substance was coming to him. He looked over at Sherlock again.

“Would you care to hear what Megan said?” asked John.

“Megan?”

“Yes, Megan. The dead girl, Mallory, her living girlfriend. Megan,” John snapped, a jolt of anger rising in his chest.

“I suppose.”

“You ‘suppose?’ Wouldn’t you think her input might be in the least bit helpful?”

“Why are you fixated on her, John?”

“Fix--? I’m not fixated on her. Her girlfriend is dead, Sherlock.”

“The old woman is dead as well, and I don’t hear you snapping at me about her daughter.”

“I--” John began, and then stopped himself. He knew why he felt a bit of a connection to her. After the Fall, he’d been in the same situation, feeling completely alone and broken.  _ It’s worse for Megan, though, _ he thought,  _ because Mallory is actually gone _ . John took a deep breath. “Because I’ve been where Megan is right now.” 

Sherlock seemed to consider John’s statement for a moment, then looked at the floor.

“Oh, John, I--”

“Don’t.”

“But--”

“Save it.” John shut his laptop, and then dropped his notepad on the kitchen table, before heading up to his bedroom.

Sherlock flinched slightly as he heard John’s bedroom door shut a little harder than necessary. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him how Megan’s situation might be similar to John’s after the Fall. Sherlock tried to get back to work, but he couldn’t seem to focus completely on the problems in front of him. He sighed, placing his hand down on top of John’s notepad. 

He went upstairs as quietly as he could, and opened the door to John’s bedroom a few inches. John was lying on his back on the bed, seemingly asleep, as he didn’t react when the beam of light from the hallway fell across his face. Sherlock eased the door open a few more inches and slipped into the room. He quietly walked over to John’s bed and drew the quilt up over his still form, before gently pressing his lips to John’s forehead.

“I’m so sorry, John,” he whispered. “You’ll never know how much.”

Sherlock turned and silently headed back downstairs. As his footsteps faded, John rolled over to face the door.

“I know…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "implied homophobia" and "implied physical abuse" tags apply to this chapter. If you would like to avoid this content, but still read the chapter, simply skip Sherlock's conversation with Mallory's parents, and Sherlock's recap of said conversation to John. 
> 
> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

Sherlock was already hard at work when John came downstairs the next morning. He slipped his wallet and mobile into his pockets as he entered the sitting room. His laptop had been moved across the table and breakfast had been set out for him in its place.

“Don’t try to butter me up,” said John.

“You? Never. I did butter the toast, however,” Sherlock replied, fighting an urge to smile. John smiled, however, and walked over to the kitchen.

“You’re impossible,” he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

John had to leave for work shortly after breakfast, so Sherlock was left alone in the flat. He was growing steadily more frustrated with himself. He wasn’t getting anywhere with Agatha’s case, and he was making equal progress with Mallory’s case. He wasn’t looking forward to making a visit to Mallory’s parents. They had already been notified of their daughter’s death, and Sherlock certainly didn’t envy whomever that responsibility had come down to. Sherlock didn’t think they would be doing a whole lot better a day later. Still, he needed to see whether they had any information that could possibly be helpful.

Sherlock put on his coat and pocketed John’s notepad before heading outside to hail a taxi.

  


The moment John entered the clinic, he understood why Kate had been so insistent that he come into work. The waiting room was nearly full. He walked over to the reception desk.

“Good morning, Marjorie,” he said to the woman behind the desk.

“‘Morning,” she replied, handing him a stack of manila folders. “These are your appointments for the morning, Doctor Watson.”

“Okay. Give me five minutes to get situated, and then you can send in… Betsy Carver,” said John, taking a peek into the folder at the top of the stack. Marjorie nodded, and John turned and headed down the corridor to his office. He opened the door, hanging his jacket on the hook affixed to the back. A small white envelope was leaning against the telephone on his desk, but just as he picked it up to examine it, a woman whom he could only assume was Betsy Carver entered his office.

  


As Sherlock read through the preliminary report about Mallory that had been sent over for, for the fourth time, he reluctantly admitted to himself that he was procrastinating. With the first case, he’d been a bit relieved to discover that John had taken it upon himself to talk to Agatha’s daughter. He didn’t relish the thought of visiting Mallory’s parents, especially since he’d read in John’s notes that they were estranged from their daughter. He also knew that he had very little choice in the matter, especially with John at work at the clinic. With one final glance at the paperwork, Sherlock set it down on the table, and put on his coat.

The address at which Sherlock exited the taxi was only a short distance from where Mallory had lived. He took John’s notepad out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone in the ground-floor flat looking out at him through the curtains. He tried to ignore them as he continued to scan John’s notes. It looked like Mallory’s parents were the ones who lived in the ground-floor flat. He could still feel the person’s eyes on him through the curtains. He pocketed John’s notepad and approached the front door. The door opened into a well-lit corridor with white walls and thick maroon carpet on the floor. Sherlock stopped at the first door on the left and knocked. Several long moments passed before he heard movement on the other side. The door opened a few inches.

“What?” the man behind the door asked, rudely.

“Are you Mallory Jacobson’s father?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

The man eyed Sherlock for a few seconds, and Sherlock could tell that he had been the one staring out through the curtains.

“Fine,” said Mallory’s father, stepping aside and opening the door, rather reluctantly, to allow Sherlock to walk past him into the flat. Sherlock walked through the small foyer into the living room and offered his hand to the woman seated in a nearby armchair.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, shaking hands with her before sitting down on the couch.

“Gladys Jacobson,” she replied, smiling slightly at Sherlock until she realised her husband was looking at her. The smile faded from her face, and Sherlock could see what her eyes were red, and a bit puffy, and decided not to comment on it.

“And your name?” he asked Mallory’s father.

“Lou.”

“Well, Lou, would you care to join us?” Lou didn’t reply and turned to leave the room, his footsteps fading slowly as he retreated to some other room.

“Don’t mind him,” said Gladys. “He’s just…”

“Onto the subject of your daughter,” Sherlock said, as Gladys’ sentence trailed off at the end. She nodded and shifted slightly in her seat.

“Yes, I suppose we have to.”

“As I understand it, you were estranged from your daughter?” Sherlock asked. He momentarily considered taking John’s notepad out of his pocket, and taking notes. Not for himself, however, but because he knew it would be helpful to John later. He drew the notepad out of one pocket and began rifling through the others in search of a pen. He found one after a few seconds, flipped open the notepad, and looked up at Gladys expectantly. She avoided his eyes.

“That was Lou’s doing,” she answered softly. “He… didn’t approve of the relationship she had with Megan, which I thought was ridiculous. Megan is a lovely young woman, and they were in love. But Lou was having none of it. I disagreed with him, but I learned my lesson about openly doing so a long time ago,” said Gladys, unconsciously reaching up with one hand to run her fingers across her cheekbone.

“Could he possibly have been angry enough to do something drastic?”

“If he had, he wouldn’t have waited a year to do it. Mallory moved out last August.”

“Megan mentioned a stepbrother?”

“Yes. Lou’s son from his first marriage. Bit of a twat, he is, if you’ll pardon my language. But this couldn’t have anything to do with him. He’s locked up in California.”

“San Quentin, according to Megan. What was he incarcerated for?” Sherlock asked, jotting down the gist of what Gladys had just told him.

“Armed robbery.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt her?”

“No one. She was- She was a good person,” said Gladys, barely managing to finish her sentence before bursting into tears. As soon as she began to cry, Lou strode back into the room, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sherlock saw her flinch almost imperceptibly.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” said Lou. Sherlock made eye contact with Gladys, who nodded slightly. He pursed his lips.

“Thanks for your time, Gladys,” he said, knowing it was the proper thing to do.

Sherlock sat with his mobile in his hand for most of the taxi ride back to Baker Street. He felt like he should phone Lestrade, but at the same time, he knew there wasn’t a lot that could be done without proof of what he’d read between the lines in his discussion with Gladys.

When Sherlock opened the door to let himself into the flat, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised to discover that he was alone. He retrieved John’s notepad from his pocket and set it down on his laptop. Then, he began to pace the sitting room. He could see no easily-distinguishable connection between the two women. He wasn’t even sure such a connection existed. Not knowing frustrated him. Even with a vast wealth of knowledge at his disposal, he was completely devoid of any sort of inkling about where to begin looking for the killer. He stopped pacing and turned around as he heard the door behind him open. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, holding a thick manila envelope.

“This came for you, while you were out,” she told him.

“That’ll be the autopsy report, thank you,” he replied, accepting the envelope from her. Her eyes widened slightly at the word ‘autopsy,’ but she said nothing, and turned to head back to her flat, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock sat down across from John’s laptop, and opened the envelope, emptying its contents onto the surface of the table. Enclosed along with the report were two copies of each of the crime scene photos. One of each of them soon joined the others tacked up around the mirror. Sherlock stood before the wall with a pen, muttering to himself and making notes on his scraps of paper. The addition of the photos and report to his collection of evidence did nothing to shed light on either case. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“Who are you?” he murmured.

  


By the time John’s lunch hour rolled around, he’s all but forgotten about the envelope resting against the phone on his desk. He took a moment to massage his temples and attempt to clear his head before picking it up. It was a plain white envelope, with his first name written across the front in large, loopy script.

“Kate,” he said to himself, turning the envelope over in his hand and sliding his finger under the flap. He drew a folded piece of paper out of the envelope, failing to notice the second, smaller slip of paper that fluttered out to land on his lap. He set the envelope down on his desk and turned his attention to the folded piece of paper. At the top of the note was the image of a pumpkin

 

_Kate Lansing cordially invites you to her 2nd annual Hallowe’en party,_

_Friday the 31st of October at 8PM. Dinner will be served, so please_

_kindly return the enclosed reply slip with the number of people attending,_

_along with their names._

 

_Costumes not required, but highly encouraged. Hope to see you there!_

 

John smiled slightly to himself, and chuckled at the idea of asking Sherlock to accompany him to a Hallowe’en party at his boss’ house. Still, he decided to ask when he got home. He glanced down and noticed the reply slip, which had landed in his lap. He picked it up and looked at it briefly, before placing it on his desk along with the invitation.

 

 _Number attending:_ _____________________

 _Name(s):_ _______________________________

              _______________________________

 

John thought for a moment and then fished a pen out of his drawer. He left the ‘number attending’ section blank for the time being and wrote his name where prompted. He would wait until he’d at least asked Sherlock before handing the slip back to Kate. He tucked both the invitation and the reply slip back into the envelope, and pushed his chair back from the desk. He knew he should get up and put the envelope in his jacket pocket, so he wouldn't lose it. His jacket was in its usual place on the hook on the back of the door. However, with his curiosity satisfied, he soon returned to his previous exasperated state. The distance from his chair to the door seemed to multiply. For a moment, he considered not even getting out of his chair and simply rolling it across the room. Then, his stomach growled, and he realised that he would have to get up to get something to eat. He sighed, and hoisted himself out of his chair, and slipped the envelope into his jacket on his way out.

As John sat down with his lunch at a small table in the cafeteria, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He glanced at the display and was mildly relieved to see that he had no messages or missed calls. Surely if something had gone terribly wrong with Sherlock’s visit to Mallory’s parents, either Lestrade or Sherlock would have contacted him. Content for the moment with his deduction, John set his mobile down and began to eat.

The lunch hour was over far too quickly for John’s liking, and it seemed that his afternoon was going to be just as busy as his morning had been. He glanced at the stack of patient files still sitting on his desk and winced as he felt the beginnings of a headache gnawing at his skull.

  


After spending an hour puzzling over the information in front of him, Sherlock made the decision to return to Mallory’s flat, as he had done with the previous case. With any luck, someone from forensics might still be there, so he would have no issue gaining entry to the flat. He wasn’t sure what he would be looking for, but he preferred taking action to the equivalent of sitting on his hands.

Once Sherlock exited the taxi at Mallory’s address, he paid the driver and made his way into the building. He met Lestrade on the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Lestrade asked.

“Come to have another look at the crime scene. Would you mind?” said Sherlock, gesturing to the door. Lestrade said nothing and simply brushed past Sherlock to open the door. Sherlock stuck his hands into his coat pockets and followed Lestrade into the flat. Mallory’s body had long since been taken to the mortuary, but the water was still in the bathtub, and the blood still on the wall and tub. The blood tests hadn’t yet been completed when the reports had been sent over. However, Sherlock had a feeling that all of the blood on the walls and tub belongs to Mallory, and that any trace of her killer had been eliminated with the clipping of her fingernails. The fact that her attacker had thought to cut her nails suggested experience, in the very least with the study of crime, but much more likely in the previous commission of similar offenses.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to realise he could glean no more information from Mallory’s flat than he had the first time around. Feeling a little discouraged and even more frustrated, Sherlock took a taxi back to Baker Street. Once inside, he stripped off his coat and scarf and flopped down on the sofa. He was still staring at the wall of notes and photos when John returned.

“Please tell me you’ve had a more productive day that I have,” John said as he put the kettle on. “A ridiculous volume of patients, but none of them suffering anything more serious than a sinus infection.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in his throat, but he sat up when John placed a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him. Then John kissed him on the lips and retreated to his armchair with his own cup. He glanced expectantly over at Sherlock.

“Would you care to share what Mallory’s parents said?” he asked.

“Her father said very little, though I gathered that he’s an abusive, bigoted brute,” Sherlock replied, and then proceeded to relay the entirety of his conversation with Gladys to John, along with what she hadn’t said. John absorbed the information without saying a word, although his expression darkened noticeably as Sherlock described Lou’s treatment of the women in his life.

“I have half a mind to go over there and knock him on his arse,” said John.

“It won’t do any good. I have no evidence to support my deductions about him, and I believe Gladys fears him too much to speak out against him explicitly.”

John frowned.

“You’re right,” he said. “And it’s a shame she couldn’t give us anything more to help us.”

“Indeed. This investigation is all but dead in the water, if you’ll pardon the expression,” said Sherlock, adding the last bit as he saw John’s frown deepen.

“And still no idea what the numbers are referring to?”

“No. And would you care to share what’s in your jacket pocket?”

“Jacket pocket?” John asked. He’d all but forgotten about the invitation. “Oh.”

He got up from his armchair, removed the envelope from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Sherlock before settling on the sofa next to him. Sherlock read the invitation quickly and glanced at the reply slip before putting both back into the envelope.

“You received this invitation today, and wrote your own name on the reply slip directly afterwards, but left the ‘number attending’ space blank, meaning you intended to ask me to accompany you,” said Sherlock.

“Well, yes,” said John, feeling a bit sheepish. “I don’t really fancy going alone.”

“I suspect you don’t fancy going at all, but she is your supervisor and you feel compelled to do so.”

John ignored the second observation.

“So, would you come with me?” John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment, a slight smirk spread across his lips.

“On one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“You go in your uniform.”

“Fair enough,” said John. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock replied, before closing the distance between their mouths. He slid a hand down John’s torso.

“Don’t- you- start- that,” John said, between kisses. He unwrapped his arms from Sherlock’s neck. “You might not need to sleep, but I do. I’m going up to bed.”

He pecked Sherlock on the lips, and got up from the sofa.

As John’s footsteps faded up the stairs, Sherlock took a sip of his now-cold tea, curled himself into a ball on the sofa, and resumed staring at the photos on the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

The next morning, John was awake half an hour before his alarm even went off. He shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed lids. He hoped the day would be at least a little less hectic than the day before. After glancing again at the clock on his bedside table, John turned off his alarm and hauled himself out of bed. He took his time getting dressed and then headed downstairs.

Sherlock was still on the sofa where John had left him the previous night . Although, now he was sprawled out on his back, with one arm hanging off the edge. His eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even. John was careful not to wake him as he made breakfast .  He had no way of knowing when exactly Sherlock’s body had succumbed to exhaustion, and John figured he could use all the sleep he could get. 

Once breakfast was finished, John put off waking Sherlock as long as he could, before finally making him a plate and carrying it into the sitting room. He shook Sherlock gently by the shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he said. The detective stirred slightly.

“What time is it?”

John glanced at his watch.

“Just after eight.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, his dressing gown slipping off his shoulders and pooling behind him.

“How long did you sleep?”

“Too long,” said Sherlock. He spotted the plate John had set down on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

“Breakfast.”

“I don’t need breakfast.”

“It’s been at least two days since you’ve eaten something.”

“John, I am perfectly--”

“Humour me!” said John, a tiny bit of his command voice seeping into his tone. Sherlock said nothing, but took a bite of his toast.

Sherlock had almost eaten the entire piece of toast when his mobile rang. He stuck the remnants of the toast into his mouth and began patting his pockets. The ringing continued, and he started to look between and beneath the sofa cushions. John soon located the phone under a nearby pile of papers, and tossed it over to Sherlock. Sherlock checked the caller ID and answered the call.

“Lestrade?” he began, and then paused to listen. “Really?” Another pause. “What makes you think it’s connected?”

John looked up and caught Sherlock’s eye before furrowing his eyebrows. Sherlock nodded.

_ Another one? _ John thought. Although, truth be told, he’d rather be on a case than at the clinic. He felt a slight pang of guilt as the realisation occurred to him, but he couldn’t help it. He also realised that if another body had been found, he would have to call out of work. He sighed, knowing that Kate wasn’t going to like it, but murder trumps head colds.

“Fine. We’ll be there soon.” Sherlock hung up with Lestrade and looked over at John. “You’re going to have to--”

“I know,” said John, interrupting him. “I know.”

“Something wrong?”

“No.” 

Sherlock studied him for a moment.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. 

As Sherlock headed towards his bedroom, John heard him mutter something that sounded a lot like, ‘Putting on trousers is tedious.’ John chuckled, pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and dialed the clinic.

“Hi, this is John Watson. Can I talk to Kate please?” he asked the person who picked up. After Sherlock’s return, John had explained to Kate that they sometimes assisted in police investigations and that it might periodically take him away from the clinic. At the time, she’d had no problem with it, but he could sense that she was starting to get frustrated. He knew he shouldn’t blame himself at all; he wasn’t the one committing the murders. But he still felt like he was letting her down every time he had to call out.

“Hello?” said Kate.

“Kate, it’s John. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. Much less busy than yesterday.”

“Good. Uhm. Listen, I can’t come in today. Something’s come up,” John said, feeling a bit hesitant. He fiddled with a loose thread at the edge of one of his trouser pockets as he spoke. 

She sighed.

“That’s… Okay. Someone will cover for you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just--”

“It’s fine. Thanks for calling.”

She hung up.

John pursed his lips and slid his mobile back into his pocket. Just then, Sherlock walked into the sitting room, tucking in his shirt.

“She’s angry,” said John.

“Well, she is one doctor short. Will they manage without you?”

“Yes. She said today is less hectic than yesterday.”

“Good. As you seem to have inferred, they’ve found another body. We’re meeting Lestrade at the crime scene.”

Sherlock put on his coat and scarf and walked out the door, leaving John to put on his coat and follow.

The taxi let them out in front of a tall office building, and they met Lestrade in the lobby.  He looked pale and exhausted, as if he’d gotten about as much sleep as Sherlock had since the case began. He led them past the reception desk and pressed the button to call the elevator. 

“Tell us about the victim,” Sherlock said, once they were in the elevator.

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair.

“His name’s Thomas Isaac. Forty-one. He was a lawyer. Single. No family, according to his secretary.”

“Cause of death?”

“One gunshot wound to the forehead. 9mm handgun.”

Just then, the elevator opened and they stepped out into a small but nicely-furnished foyer. In front of them was a glass door, bearing the words, ‘Thomas Isaac’ in bold black letters, with ‘attorney at law’ in smaller type underneath. Lestrade opened the door and gestured for John and Sherlock to enter before him. The door opened into what appeared to be some sort of common area between several offices. A row of chairs occupied the left wall, and seated in one of the chairs was a woman. She was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and shaking her head in response to whatever question she had just been asked by the officer John recognised as Finley from the previous crime scene.

“I assume she’s the secretary,” said John.

“Yeah, her name is Vivian,” Lestrade replied. “She found the body.”

“Which office?” Sherlock asked.

“Go to the right here,” said Lestrade, gesturing with his hand. “And it’s the second door on the left.”

Sherlock walked through the doorway on the right, and John looked at Vivian, and then at Lestrade before following. Sherlock ducked under the yellow tape that had been strung across the doorway. The office was a decent size, but the number of filing cabinets that lined the walls as higher than the amount that would fit comfortably, giving the room a feeling of being overcrowded. Two members of the forensics team were examining Thomas’ body. At the time of his death, he’d been seated behind his desk with his left hand resting on its wooden surface. Sherlock stepped closer to the body and drew his magnifier out of his pocket. The wound was faintly star-shaped and very close to the exact middle of the forehead. Sherlock straightened up as something caught his eye. The number ‘1’ was etched into the back of Thomas’ left hand, but the item next to it, however, was what had attracted Sherlock’s attention. 

Sitting on the desk near Thomas’ hand was a red apple. Sherlock eyed it for a moment, and then looked up at John, making a beckoning gesture with one hand, while putting his magnifier back in his pocket with the other. John rolled his eyes and passed Sherlock a rubber glove from the packet Lestrade offered him. A single bite had been taken out of the apple. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and he set the apple back down on the desk and began to examine the body again.

“The number was carved with the same blade as the other two. Serrated. Ten to fifteen centimeters in length. The cut was made post-mortem, just like the other two,” said Sherlock.

There was no exit wound, so the shot couldn’t have been fired from point-blank range. Sherlock walked around to the front of the desk and moved several paces away, counting as he went. John could tell he was deducing the distance the killer must have been standing away from Thomas when the gun was fired. Seemingly satisfied with his conclusion, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and took several photos of the apple.

“You think it’s significant somehow?” John asked, peering at it.

“I’m not sure yet,” Sherlock replied.

“The gun will have been at the bottom of the Thames a long time ago,” said John. “And chances are, he’s used a drop gun, so trying to match the bullet to any other shooting will be useless.”

“No…”

“But--”

“Sorry, yes, that would be useless. But something else has just occurred to me,” said Sherlock.

He said nothing further for a long moment.

“And what might that be?” John asked.

“Jim Moriarty.”

“But Moriarty’s dead. You said he shot himself in the head.”

“So I thought, but this changes things,” said Sherlock, gesturing to the apple.

“Thomas was probably just eating it before he died. What makes you think it has anything to do with Jim Moriarty?”

“That’s possible, yes. The autopsy will clear that up for us. And this brings him to mind because the day he was acquitted he came round for a visit.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And while we were chatting he carved ‘IOU’ into an apple with a penknife. However, instead of actually carving the ‘O’ he took a bite out of the apple,” Sherlock explained.

“That doesn’t mean this has anything to do with him. I mean, he always had someone else pull the trigger for him, rather than killing anyone himself, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why, almost a year and a half after faking his death,  if he did indeed fake it, would he suddenly start killing people personally? I mean, to shove a walnut down someone’s throat, or drown them in their bathtub, you’ve got to get pretty close to them, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, heaving an exasperated sigh and rubbing his face with both hands. “I suppose you’re right.”

John stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll figure this out. You always do.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but tilted his head to rest his cheek against John’s hand for a second, and then walked a slow lap around the desk, examining the scene as a whole. He couldn’t comprehend why the killer would suddenly move from close quarters methods of murdering his victims to a bullet that was likely fired from across the room.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and left the office. The elevator doors had shut before John caught up. He swore under his breath before walking back through the glass door. He surmised he would have to talk to Vivian by himself, and wondered momentarily whether he was being punished for leaving Sherlock to deal with Mallory’s parents.

_ Probably _ , he thought, chewing on his lip for a moment.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Lestrade.

“I haven’t the faintest,” John replied with a sigh. 

Lestrade frowned before turning to walk back into Thomas’ office, leaving John in the foyer with Vivian. He walked over and sat down beside her.

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“John Watson,” said John, shaking hands with her.

“Vivian Reyes. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but under the circumstances, it really isn’t.”

John wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he simply nodded.

“Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

“I guess,” she said, after a few seconds’ deliberation.

John pulled his notepad out of his pocket along with a pen.

“Tell me about Thomas.”

“Well,” she began. “No wife, no kids. No family. He was alone. It’s a shame, really. He was a good man.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who could have wanted to hurt him?”

“No one.”

“What about any of his clients?”

“Thomas did corporate litigation. He wasn’t out defending criminals,” said Vivian. John paused for a moment to write down what she had said before continuing.

“What about visitors? Has anyone strange been round recently?”

“Sort of. There was a delivery man who came in three days ago with a package. He gave me the creeps.”

“What did he look like?”

“White, mid-thirties, chin-length blond hair.”

“Do you know what was in the package?”

“No, but I think--” Vivian paused mid-sentence as members of the forensics team brought a gurney out of the office, bearing a body. She sniffed, and pulled a tissue out of the box on the end table next to her.

John gave her a moment to compose herself, and looked down at his notes in the meantime. He felt bad that Thomas had no family, but the feeling was mixed with a tiny bit of relief that no one would need to receive the news that their husband, or son, or father, or brother had been murdered. He wondered if the delivery man factored into the situation at all, or if it was simply a coincidence. He couldn’t be sure.

After a minute or so, Vivian collected her tissues and got up to put them in the bin before sitting back down on her chair. 

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I just…”

“No need to apologise,” John replied. “If you’re all right, we can finish this up.”

Vivian nodded.

“What was I saying?”

“The package.”

“Right. I think whatever was in that package upset him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“As soon as he opened it, I heard the jingling of keys, and then the locked drawer of his desk banging open, followed by the sound of something being tossed into the drawer. Then he slammed it shut and locked it again. I asked him about it, and he snapped at me.”

“And it was unusual for him to snap at you?”

“Yes. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been cross with me, and I’ve been here about five years.”

“Hmm, that is odd,” John agreed. He skimmed his notes again quickly. Then he stood up and offered her his hand. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

She shook his hand and nodded.

“Find the person who did this.”

“We intend to.”

  
  


When John returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He thought nothing of it, and simply hung up his jacket, booted up his laptop, and made some tea. He found an email in his inbox from Kate, asking him to come in the next day, because they were expecting another hectic day. He responded immediately, saying that he would be in first thing in the morning. If anything came up between when John sent the email and the next morning, Sherlock would have to handle it alone.

John sent the email and then clicked over to his blog, realising that he was several posts behind. He retrieved his notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages, noticing for the first time that Sherlock had taken notes during his conversation with Mallory’s parents. John smiled slightly. There was no way Sherlock had taken the notes for his own benefit; they must have been for John’s. 

The sun was just setting on Baker Street when Sherlock returned. John was still sitting at his laptop. Sherlock thumped up the stairs and closed the door behind him with more force than was strictly necessary. He paid no mind to the way the picture frame hanging on the wall next to the door rattled, dangerously close to falling off. John looked over at Sherlock, concern etching itself in his features, but he said nothing. Sherlock would explain when he was good and ready.

Sherlock removed his coat and hung it up before flopping down in his chair, drawing his legs up underneath him. He spent several minutes eyeing the wall that bore the photos in silence. John closed his laptop and walked over to sit down in his own chair. He crossed his legs and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with Molly,” said Sherlock. “There’s been some kind of auto accident involving several vehicles, and it’ll be at least tomorrow morning before she’ll be able to get me the lawyer’s autopsy report.”

“Oh dear,” said John. “It must be serious if they’re making  _ you _ wait.” Sherlock scowled at him. “What I meant was that these cases have been pretty close to the top of the priority list. Lestrade has been under some pretty heavy pressure to catch this guy, since he seemingly strikes at random. People are afraid, Sherlock.”

“They should be. I’m still not closer to figuring anything out. The number have got to be important; I’m just not sure how.”

“And you’re not going to like this. I got another email from Kate. They need me to come in tomorrow, so I said I would.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re at the clinic?”

John shrugged.

“Pester Molly about when the autopsy report will be ready?” John suggested, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. Sherlock laughed.

“I’m going to tell her you said that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

At some point between the time when John and Sherlock had discussed the part invitation and the morning John intended to return it, the envelope had been moved from the sofa. John spent a few minutes longer than he should have looking for it, and didn’t get a chance to shave before leaving for work. Eventually he’d found it on the table in the sitting room underneath his laptop. Once he’d located it, he picked up a pen and hurriedly filled out the reply slip.

_  
 Number attending:_         2         

_Name(s):_ _John Watson_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

Then, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and hurried out the door.

Inwardly, John hoped it wasn’t going to be as hectic a day as Kate was predicting, even though he knew better. Kate had a knack for being able to predict, with decent accuracy, when they were going to be swamped.

The stack of folders John received when he arrived at the clinic was larger than the one he’d been given last time. He sighed and asked Marjorie to give him a few minutes to get situated before sending in the first patient. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day, and he wasn’t very eager to get started. A pang of guilt shot through him as the thought occurred to him. He didn’t actually dislike his work. He was helping people, which was the reason he’d wanted to become a doctor in the first place.

A knock on his office door drew him out of his thoughts, and he settled himself behind his desk and answered.

 

“The report’s just printing out now,” said Molly, not even looking up from her clipboard.  

She had been standing with her back to the door and all but felt Sherlock walk in. The frustration radiating off of him was nearly tangible. He said nothing and meandered over to one of the autopsy tables, reaching for the corner of the white sheet that had been draped over the body.

“Leave it. That one’s not yours.”

Sherlock dropped the edge of the sheet and approached Molly.

“Tell me about the lawyer,” he said.

“Fairly straightforward,” said Molly. “Single gunshot wound to the head. The number was the only other mark on him.”

“What else?”

“Fairly good health, stomach was empty, and rigor mortis--”

“Stomach was empty…” Sherlock muttered to himself.

“Is that significant?”

“I don’t know.”

Truthfully, he _didn’t_ know. He was still at a bit of a loss. It seemed highly unlikely that the apple possessed any real importance. But at the same time, he couldn’t seem to dismiss it completely from his mind. There were several factors connected to the lawyer’s death that hadn’t come up in the previous cases. The apple was one of them, and the other was the strange delivery man whom the secretary had mentioned. John had shared his and Vivian’s conversation with Sherlock. Immediately, the delivery man had piqued Sherlock’s interest. It would make sense for the lawyer’s office to keep a log of deliveries, so Sherlock thought it might contain some useful information.

Sherlock turned and left the morgue, with Molly calling after him about the reports. She slid them out of the printer and stapled the pages together before setting the stapler back down on her desk with a bit more force than necessary. Sherlock had given her grief about the time it had taken to get the reports finished and then left without them. She set them aside and got back to work, muttering to herself.

Once he was outside St. Bart’s, Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Thomas’ office. He had half a mind to phone John and tell him what Molly had said, but soon thought better of it. As the buildings sped by outside the taxi’s window, Sherlock couldn’t stop the wheels in his head from turning. It had been some time since Sherlock felt as dejected as he did then. He gritted his teeth as he remembered that the last time he’d felt so lost was just before the Fall. People were being murdered, and he was completely at a loss as to why, or by whom. His best efforts had thus far been for naught. He reached up with one hand to massage his temples as he felt the beginnings of a headache blossoming.

“Transport,” he muttered to himself.

“Sorry?” the cabbie asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, quickly realising that the car had pulled up in front of the lawyer’s office building while he’d been distracted. He paid the driver and exited the car. Then, he stood on the pavement for a moment, staring up at the building.

 

John rolled his shoulders, attempting to dispel the tension that had built up in him from sitting stiffly at his desk for far too long. The day seemed to be crawling by, regardless of how busy he was. He had been glad to discover that the stack of folders he’d received that morning contained the files of patients with whom he had a particularly good rapport. Therefore, even though he was already tired, he was in a pretty decent mood. He stood up for a moment, sighing as he stretched, and then glanced at his watch. His next patient was due for their appointment soon. The file at the top of the stack bore the name, ‘Colleen Kingston.’ He heard a knock at the door and settled down behind his desk again.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened, and a woman walked in. She was older, and it occurred to John that she must be nearing seventy. He smiled slightly as she sat down across from him.

“Ms. Kingston,” he said amiably.

“Colleen, please,” she replied. “Doctor Watson, I’m pretty certain we have this exact exchange every time I come to see you.”

“You’re probably right. Now, what brings you in today?”

“I feel fine. I just need a refill of my blood pressure medication.”

“I’m glad. And it’s still working well for you, then?”

She nodded.

“Good, good,” he said, unlocking the drawer that held his prescription pad. He filled out the prescription and tore the slip off of the pad before handing it across the desk to her.

“Thank you,” she said, rising from the chair.

“You’re welcome. Have a good day,” he replied.

“You too!” Then, she left.

John took her folder from the top of the stack and moved it to the bottom. The file that was now at the top informed him that his next patient wasn’t due to arrive for a bit over an hour. He picked up the envelope in which he’d placed the reply slip, then crossed his office and stepped out into the corridor.

Marjorie was on the phone when John approached her, so he slid the envelope into his trouser pocket and waited. He looked around the waiting room and noticed people focused on their mobiles, or reading magazines; one woman was even knitting. Suddenly, he began to feel uneasy. Any one of the people in front of him could potentially be the killer’s next victim.

_Or the killer_ , John’s brain supplied, unhelpfully. He pushed the thought from his mind, and turned back to face Marjorie, just as she hung up the phone. “Have you see Kate around?” he asked.

“She should be in her office right about now,” said Marjorie. “Would you like me to phone her?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll just go to see her. Thanks.”

Kate’s office was up on the fourth floor, and John spent the entirety of the ride in the elevator toying with the corner of the envelope that stuck out of his pocket. He was mildly surprised to find that he was alone in the elevator. On a day when they were so busy, he’d thought there would be more people around.

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, John stepped out and noticed that the door the Kate’s office was closed. He approached the door and knocked, but there was no answer. It was strangely quiet in the corridor, but John paid no attention. He glanced at his watch, and decided to go to lunch, and try again afterwards.

 

The woman behind the reception desk on the first floor of Thomas’ office building barely glanced at Sherlock as he strode past her on his way to the elevator. He wondered whether Thomas’ regular assistant would be there, or if she’d stayed home, before reminding himself that whoever was there would likely be able to help him. The elevator ride to the fourth floor seemed to be taking an unusually long amount of time, and Sherlock allowed his mind to wander for a moment as he stared into the mirrored surface of the metal. His mobile beeped just as the elevator doors opened, but he ignored it.

The office was strangely crowded, forcing Sherlock to edge past several groups of people on his way to the secretary’s desk. The woman seated behind the desk was not the same person he’d seen the previous day. She appeared to be deep in conversation with a grim-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. Sherlock approached the desk, but decided to move a few feet to the side after a woman from one of the groups stepped backwards onto his foot.

After a long moment, the woman behind the desk noticed Sherlock[,] and gestured for him to come closer. She nodded in response to something the man said, and then turned her attention to Sherlock as the man left the room.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he replied. “Sherlock Holmes. And you are?”

She smiled and held out her hand.

“Zoё. Are you here for the memorial?”

“For the mem- You’re having a memorial here? At the office?”

Zoё pursed her lips at Sherlock’s disbelieving face.

“It’s what he would want. And if you knew him you’d know that, so who are you?”

“Police. I need to ask you a few things.”

“I wasn’t in yesterday.”

“I know, but you’re here now.”

“What do you need?”

“Your coworker, Vivian, I think was her name, mentioned seeing a strange deliveryman here the other day, and that the package he brought upset Mr. Isaac. I need two things from you; a log of deliveries, and the key to Mr. Isaac’s locked desk drawer.”

“Sure thing,” said Zoё, pulling a spiral-bound hardback notebook from a drawer. She handed it across the desk to Sherlock and he began flipping through the pages. The top of each page was labelled neatly with the date and divided up into several columns; ‘delivery service,’ ‘delivered by,’ ‘time,’ ‘addressee,’ and ‘parcel signed for by.’ Sherlock continued to look through the notebook until he reached the date three days prior to the murder. He sighed as he realised that it was only partially filled out.

 

_Delivery Service  |  Delivered By  |  Time  | Addressee |  Signed For By:_

_11:30  |   T. Isaac     | Vivian Reyes_    

 

 

“Hmm,” he began. The writing in the first two spaces was completely illegible. “It looks like Ms. Reyes signed the log, and then passed the book to the deliveryman to fill in his name and the name of the delivery service. Shoddy bookkeeping, but I doubt she had any malicious intent.”

He passed the notebook back across the desk to Zoё, gesturing to the half-scribbled line on the page. Zoё took the log and examined it for a few seconds before her eyebrows knitted with concern.

“That’s very unusual. Almost all of our deliveries on that day of the week come from a particular courier service, and they keep meticulous records,” she said.

Sherlock digested the information, and then pulled out John’s notepad and began writing.

“And the key for the desk drawer?” he asked.

Zoё placed the log back in her desk and began digging through the contents of the middle drawer. After a few seconds, she produced a small silver key dangling from a tattered lanyard. Sherlock took the key and entered Thomas’ office.

The bottom drawer was mostly empty, except for a few folders. Beneath them was a manila envelope. It was face down in the drawer but Sherlock knew it was the one he was looking for. ‘Thomas’ was scrawled across the front of the envelope in large capital letters, and Sherlock had a feeling it would be impossible to match the handwriting to its owner. There was only one thing inside the envelope. Sherlock slowly drew the photograph out of the envelope, and studied it for a moment. The photograph depicted a man- obviously a younger Thomas- standing hand in hand with a small girl, in front of a house. The girl appeared to be five or six, and bore a striking resemblance to Thomas.

_She must be his daughter,_ Sherlock thought. “I was told Mr. Isaac had no family,” he said, passing the photo to Zoё.

“He didn’t, as far as I knew. But he really hated talking about himself, so none of us really knew a lot about his personal life.”

Instead of the pieces of the puzzle coming together and forming any semblance of an image, they were multiplying exponentially. The information Sherlock had received from Zoё had already taken up residence in its proper location in his mind palace, but that didn’t prevent it from creeping up into the forefront of his brain. It persisted in doing so for the entirety of his ride back to Baker Street.

 

John was nearly on his way out of the clinic for the day when he finally caught up with Kate. He’d nearly forgotten about the reply slip and was putting on his jacket to head home when the envelope fluttered out of his pocket and landed on the floor in front of him. He didn’t feel very much like trekking back upstairs, but the reply slip needed to get back to Kate. The little voice in the back of his mind chimed in with the reality that he couldn’t honestly be sure of the next time he would be in. He shook his head. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but that fact didn’t stop him from feeling guilty. He sighed and bent over to pick up the envelope.

The elevator doors opened as soon as John pressed the button. He nearly collided with the person who stepped out of the elevator, and it took him a moment to realise that it was Kate.

“Are you okay, John?” she asked, concern etched into her face.

“Just a bit distracted is all,” he replied. Her eyes narrowed fractionally, but she remained silent. He held out the envelope. “I tried to bring this up to you earlier, but you weren’t around.”

“Ah, thanks. Yeah, I was in a meeting for a lot of the day, unfortunately,” she said, sliding the envelope into her pocket. “I’ll see you then, if not before.”

“Indeed you will,” said John. “Take care.”

“You too.”

 

John found Sherlock seated at the table in the sitting room scribbling on sticky notes and frequently consulting John’s notepad. He was completely immersed in his task and didn’t notice John’s arrival. John crossed the sitting room and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Who’s that?” John asked, upon seeing the photo that Sherlock had found in Thomas’ desk.

“I believe that would be the lawyer’s daughter,” Sherlock replied.

“Daughter? But I thought--”

“I did, too. But according to the assistant I spoke to today, none of them knew much about his personal life.”

“It’s got to be relevant, hasn’t it?”

“Could be. But if it is, why would he suddenly begin initiating contact with his victims prior to the murders?”

John made a noncommittal sound in his throat and crossed the sitting room to sit down in his chair. He wiped one hand down across his face, allowing a weary sigh to escape his lips. Without him even noticing, Sherlock had gotten up from the table and came to stand in front of him. Sherlock ran his hand gently through John’s hair.

“What’s wrong, John?” he asked quietly.

John tilted his head slightly to nuzzle Sherlock’s hand, which had slid down the side of his head to his cheek.

“At the clinic today I kept looking at the people around me and thinking that any one of them could be the killer’s next victim, or even the killer. On top of that, I feel a bit guilty that I’ve been out so much recently.”

Sherlock said nothing, but clucked his tongue and held out his arms to John. John stood up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. They stayed there for a few minutes, until the tension drained from John’s muscles. He tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck, and pressed a kiss against his jaw.

“None of this is your fault,” Sherlock said, when they stepped back from each other.

“I know,” said John, kissing Sherlock once on the lips. “But thank you.”

John settled back down in his chair, and Sherlock returned to his seat at the table. They didn’t speak for several minutes, until John asked about the information Sherlock had gathered, aside from the photo.

“This guy’s MO is all over the place,” John muttered, getting up from his seat. “Have you eaten today?”

Sherlock made a noise in the affirmative. John strode into the kitchen.

“John, I--”

“Eugh!” John exclaimed. Lined up across the top shelf of the fridge were several apples, in various stages of decomposition. The apple that was furthest to the right of the bunch had deteriorated into a sickly brown lump, and had been placed in a beaker. The smell of rotting fruit reached John’s nose, and he slammed the fridge shut. He turned around and leaned his back against the door. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he began to laugh.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sexual content tags apply to this chapter. If you would like to avoid this content, but still read the chapter, simply stop reading after Sherlock first mentions the library.
> 
> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

The next several days passed, surprisingly, without incident. The word ‘incident’ of course being a euphemism for ‘another murder.’ For two of those days, John had gone in to the clinic, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He was still no closer to figuring anything out, especially with the addition of the deliveryman and the photograph into the equation. He still wasn’t completely certain whether they were significant, but he found it hard to write off as a coincidence. 

The night of the Hallowe’en party snuck up on the both of them without them even noticing. John came home from the clinic to find Sherlock hanging something in a garment bag over one of the doors to the kitchen. He hadn’t really given the party another thought since the day he’d handed the reply slip back to Kate. He glanced at his watch.

_ 7 o’clock? _ he thought.  _ That’s plenty of time. _

He knew he had agreed to go to the party in his uniform, in exchange for Sherlock agreeing to go at all. He had no idea what Sherlock was planning to wear, although he figured he would find out soon enough. It was then that John realised he was going to have to go digging in his closet to find his uniform.

The box John was looking for was at the bottom of a stack in the back of his closet. He hoisted it up onto his bed and lifted the lid. Inside the box was his uniform, still folded neatly, just as he’d left it.

It took John less than ten minutes to get dressed, after jumping in the shower. The clock on John’s bedside table had just clicked over to 7:30 when he slipped his dog tags over his head, and bent down to tie his boots. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment; he had known his uniform still fit, but it had been some time since he’d worn it. He’d rolled up the jacket sleeves, accentuating his biceps, and the trousers sat just right on his hips. He slid his wallet and his mobile into his trouser pockets, and headed downstairs. 

“Sherlock? Are you ready?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, before stepping into the kitchen.

The clothes Sherlock was wearing made up what was unmistakably a pirate costume. It consisted of; black knee boots; baggy black linen trousers, which were tucked into the boots; and a flowy, deep purple top. The shirt tied at the collar, but Sherlock had left it untied, and the two halves of the fabric framed his throat perfectly. John stared for a few seconds as Sherlock fastened a belt around his waist. Attached to the belt was a wooden cutlass. John was reminded of Mycroft’s comments about Sherlock’s childhood career choices, and pondered the very real possibility that Sherlock actually owned the costume.

“You look--” John began.

“As do you,” Sherlock interrupted, allowing a smile to spread across his lips. He stretched his arms above his head, and the shirt rode up a little, baring a sliver of skin at his hip. “Shall we?” he asked, striding past John and out the door.

The cabbie glanced at them twice as they climbed into his car, but showed no other reaction to their attire. They spent the majority of the cab ride in amiable silence. John tried, with varying amounts of success, to push the cases from his mind, and focus only on the party. He’d never been to Kate’s house before, so he had no idea what to expect.

Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t the enormous, sprawling mansion that gradually came into view as the car made its way up a steep hill. Two wrought iron gates had been opened to reveal a long driveway that was flanked by trees on either side. A bunch of orange and black balloons had been attached to the mailbox. John crossed and uncrossed his legs as the car turned into the driveway, wondering how many people Kate would be expecting.

The taxi pulled up in front of the house, and John paid the cabbie. As the cab drove away, John and Sherlock turned to face the house. Ribbons of crepe paper had been tacked up across the lintel of the door, and a wreath of autumn leaves hung in the center of the door. John adjusted his jacket and stepped up onto the stoop to ring the doorbell. A few seconds passed, then Kate opened the door. She was wearing an outfit that John recognised as Dorothy from  _ The Wizard of Oz _ . She grinned and stepped aside to allow John and Sherlock to move past her into the foyer.

“So glad you could make it, John,” she said, closing the door behind them. “And you must be Sherlock,” she continued, offering him her hand. “So nice to meet you.”

“And you as well,” Sherlock replied, shaking her hand and smiling. John noticed immediately that  i t was one of the smiles he wore when he was uncomfortable or in an unfamiliar situation.

“If you’ll go down this corridor and to the right, hors d'oeuvres are being served in the ballroom,” said Kate, gesturing to the corridor in question. 

“Ballroom?” John mouthed, after Kate had turned her back.

Sherlock shrugged, and they started down the corridor. The sound of laughter and people chattering soon travelled down the hall, and John wondered, again, how many people would be attending.

The ballroom was massive, with white walls, and a high ceiling, with intricate crown moulding around the edges. A crystal chandelier hung down from the center of the ceiling, and it, too, had been bedecked with crepe paper. 

After taking a moment to examine his surroundings, John looked around at his fellow partygoers. He soon spotted Marjorie, from the reception desk, dressed as a witch, speaking to Kate’s husband, who was dressed as the Tin Woodsman. There were also a number of people with whom he was less familiar, although he did recognise their costumes. Among them were a pair of Starfleet officers, Frankenstein’s creature, Cinderella, and several zombies.

Marjorie soon finished her conversation with Kate’s husband, and strode across the room towards John. Her billowy black dress was too long for her, and she had to lift the front to walk comfortably.

“Hello, John,” she said, twiddling her fingers at him in a mock-spooky gesture. 

He smiled.

“Hi, Marjorie. This is my…” He paused for a moment, unsure of what word to use. “Sherlock,” he finished, a bit sheepishly.

Marjorie didn’t seem to notice, and simply shook hands with Sherlock.

“Great costumes, you two,” she said, eyeing both of them.

“Thank you. And yours as well,” John replied.

The doorbell rang, and the sound echoed down the corridor to the ballroom. John swiftly turned his head toward the source of the noise, and the motion caused his dog tags to jingle. Sherlock’s eyes were momentarily drawn to John’s neck, and he pursed his lips and looked away.

Marjorie drifted away after a few minutes’ small talk, leaving John and Sherlock on their own. John stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, and looked across the room to the long buffet table that had been set up against the opposite wall.

“Are you hungry at all?” John asked, already anticipating an answer in the negative.

“Not really, but I suppose there’s no harm in seeing what’s available,” Sherlock replied.

“Now don’t go and spoil your dinner,” John warned, smirking.

“Git,” Sherlock muttered.

There was nothing interesting to be had, in terms of appetizers, so John and Sherlock simply nursed glasses of punch and made conversation with the pair of Starfleet officers.

“Dinner is ready, everyone!” Kate announced, after the better part of an hour. As the guests filed into the dining room, John was struck by the sheer size of it. 

Sherlock disappeared for several minutes halfway through dinner, ostensibly to go to the toilet. When he returned, however, John noticed a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What did you do?” John asked, a hint of a warning in his tone.

“Nothing at all. There just happens to be a library at the end of a short corridor just off of this room. I took a peek,” said Sherlock. As he sat down, he reached across the table to take a roll from the basket, and his shirt rode up a little, revealing that same sliver of skin at his hip. John reached down with one hand and trailed his fingers across the area.

After dinner was over, Kate ushered everyone back into the ballroom, where she queued up music on an elaborate stereo system. Sherlock hung back, grabbing John’s wrist, and gesturing in the direction of the library with his chin. John shot him a look that plainly said, ‘Seriously?’ but Sherlock simply tugged on his wrist. The library was the only room that the corridor led to, and John wondered why it wasn’t just directly connected to the dining room. 

As soon as John had closed the door behind them, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and crashed their mouths together. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and slid them up his sides, dragging the fabric of his shirt up as well.

“Lock the door,” Sherlock murmured when they broke apart.

John locked the doors, and when he turned back around, he found that Sherlock was leaning against the ornate cherry wood desk on the opposite side of the room. The library was enormous. The high, book-lined walls gave way to a ceiling painted with an aquatic-themed mural, depicting a pair of mermaids. The ceiling was actually the bottom of a mezzanine, and John noticed that the library actually consisted of several floors. The center of the very top of the true ceiling ended in a glass dome. John was momentarily dumbstruck. As he approached Sherlock, he wondered if any sound louder than a whisper would echo.

“Captain,” said Sherlock, smirking as he hooked his fingers through John’s belt loops. 

John smiled and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock. The kiss was softer and unhurried this time, and Sherlock reached up to run his fingers through the short hair at the back of John’s neck. As John parted his lips and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist, he felt the detective’s hips cant against his. He drew back to look at Sherlock.

“Wait,” said John. “Are you sure you want to do this here, now?”

“Yes, I do. Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then,” said Sherlock, before pecking John on the lips. He pressed a kiss to John’s jaw, and trailed his lips down the side of his neck to the hollow of his throat.

John sighed and did his best to keep from pondering exactly how mad the whole thing was. It was easy to push the thought from his mind, however, as Sherlock had just finished sucking a bruise into his neck. Sherlock drew back half a step, and got to his knees.

In place of a button and a zipper, John’s uniform trousers had several buttons. Sherlock fumbled with the buttons for a few seconds before he was able to open them. He separated the two halves of the fabric, and pushed John’s trousers, along with his pants, down just far enough past his hips to free him. Sherlock smirked up at John as he wrapped one hand around his shaft. He could practically hear John wondering whether this was a good idea, while he knew full well that it wasn’t. Sherlock’s smirk slowly shifted into the genuine smile he reserved only for John. He felt the tension drain from John’s body as he allowed himself to relax.

A soft sigh escaped John’s lips as he felt Sherlock’s hand slide from the base of his cock to the tip. He leaned back against the desk as Sherlock repeated his previous action, using his tongue the second time around. John cupped his hand around Sherlock’s face.

“Such a pretty mouth,” he murmured, tracing Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. He drew his hand back, and slid the tip of his cock between Sherlock’s lips. It had been some time since they’d last been together, and John had never quite gotten used to Sherlock’s mouth on him. 

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock leaned forward, taking more of John into his mouth; something like pride swelling in his chest as he saw John’s fingers tighten around the edge of the desk, and heard his respiration accelerate. John’s head tilted back, making the tendons in his neck more prominent. Sherlock had never been particularly adept at this, so it bolstered his confidence and made him happy to know when he was pleasing John. He slid one hand up John’s undershirt to rest on his hip, and used the other to stroke the portion of John’s shaft that he wasn’t sucking on. He swirled his tongue around the sides, and gradually settled into a rhythm. Every few bobs of his head, he attempted to take John even further into his mouth.

John reached down to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, moaning softly, and spreading his legs a little further. His fingertips tightened reflexively in the dark curls as Sherlock did a particularly wicked thing with his tongue. Without pausing, Sherlock eyed John from his position on the floor. The hand retreated. 

Almost absentmindedly, Sherlock slid one hand down the front of his trousers, and began to stroke himself in time with the motion of his mouth. He saw John’s knuckles going white from gripping the desk so hard. Sherlock reached up with the hand that wasn’t down his trousers, and placed John’s hand on the back of his head.

“C-Can I--” John began, gently splaying his fingers across the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and nodded slightly.

Pressing his hips forward a fraction of an inch at a time, John carefully, slid his cock down into Sherlock’s throat. A sound that was reminiscent of a whimper escaped John’s lips when Sherlock had taken all of him; that had never happened before. Had he been able to, Sherlock would have smirked, but instead, he settled for swallowing around John, beginning to stroke himself faster as he did so. 

John gasped as he felt Sherlock’s throat contract around his shaft, the sensation causing his toes to curl inside his boots. The air soon left his lungs in the form of a ragged moan as he slowly began to fuck Sherlock’s mouth, with his encouragement. 

After a few more moments, John gently pulled Sherlock off of him. As much as he was enjoying himself, he didn’t want to finish like this, and he was already close to the edge. He cupped one hand around Sherlock’s face again, running his thumb across the prominent cheekbone.

“Up you get,” said John, a note of tenderness creeping into his voice. Sherlock stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand with which he hadn’t been touching himself. “Trousers off,” John continued. Sherlock undid the belt that held his cutlass, and stepped out of his boots before removing his trousers. He started to remove his pants, and then paused to look at John. “Those too.” 

Sherlock complied, and pressed himself against John as their lips met. He moaned against John’s lips when he ground his hips forward, slotting their cocks together at just the right angle. After a few moments, John broke the contact between their mouths. He drew back slightly, before Sherlock could find a rhythm. He put his lips to the side of Sherlock’s jaw, pressing a string of kisses into the shadow of his jawline. Sherlock lifted his chin, exposing his neck and prompting John to turn his attention to the pale throat. Then the reality of their situation returned to the forefront of his mind.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“We haven’t got any lube,” John replied. To his surprise, Sherlock began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“Look in your chest pocket.”

John unbuttoned his chest pocket, and, sure enough found a blister packet of lube.

“Git.” John took a few seconds to button his pocket again, before glancing back over at Sherlock. It took everything in him not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the image of Sherlock, nude from the waist down, in his boss’ elaborate library. “Hands on the desk.”

Sherlock stepped over to the desk, and placed his hands on its polished wooden surface, and spread his legs a bit. He heard the crinkling of the packet as John tore it open, and chastised himself for only including one, without previously making sure it would be enough. The thought was pushed from his mind as he felt one of John’s fingers enter him slowly.

Once his index finger was completely inside Sherlock, John paused to allow him time to adjust. With his other hand, John gingerly placed the packet on the desk, making sure to put down a tissue first. He didn’t relish the thought of his boss finding smears of lube on her- most likely expensive- desk. He removed and reinserted his finger a few more times, keeping to the same slow pace until Sherlock impatiently shoved his hips back against John’s hand.

“Be patient,” said John, stilling his hand completely for a few seconds. When John started moving again, he carefully added a second finger. A soft moan escaped Sherlock’s lips as John rotated his hand, so his palm faced the floor.

Ordinarily, Sherlock made no attempt to control the sounds he made, but in their current situation, he deemed it prudent. He bit back the next moan that bubbled up in his throat as John’s fingers found his prostate.

“Now, now,” said John, sliding his fingers over that spot again. “No need to be completely silent. Just… mindful.”

John’s fingers settled into a rhythm, and he started to include deliberate strokes of Sherlock’s prostate at random intervals. Sherlock’s jaw went slack, and he groaned low in his throat.

“J-John…” Sherlock began, lifting one hand from the desk to reach for his cock. John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist with his free hand.

“None of that, now,” said John, withdrawing his other hand. He slicked himself up with the remainder of the lube, stroking himself a few times for good measure, and carefully entered Sherlock. After pausing to give Sherlock time to adjust, John buried himself to the hilt with a sigh [,] and leaned forward to press a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck. He placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip, and reached around to stroke his cock with the other.

John moved slowly at first, but soon found a comfortable tempo. In spite of all the thoughts of,  _ ‘What are we doing?’ _ and  _ ‘Someone could walk in at any moment.’ _ that could- and probably should- have been flooding John’s brain, the only thing he could think about was Sherlock.

An impossible decision presented itself to Sherlock. He couldn’t decide whether he should press his hips forward against John’s hand, or back against his cock. In the end, he did neither, and simply clutched more tightly at the edge of the desk. He felt John adjust the angle of his hips, and moaned as the tip of John’s cock found his prostate. 

John smirked and circled his hips, repeating the action as he saw Sherlock reach up and bite down on his own fist to muffle a particularly loud cry.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, at the same time sliding his right hand off of Sherlock’s cock, and looped both arms around his waist. He could feel his control dissipating as his rhythm faltered. He came a few thrusts later, hips stuttering, and Sherlock’s name escaping his lips again, accompanied by a moan. As he waited for his breathing to return to normal, he leaned forward to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock made a noise in his throat and squirmed urgently against John. 

“What did I say about patience?” John crooned softly in Sherlock’s ear, circling his hips one last time, and enjoying the breathy  _ ‘Oh’ _ it drew from the detective. 

John pulled out and tucked himself back into his trousers, while simultaneously appreciating the view; the flush of arousal spread across Sherlock’s neck, the fluids dripping down his thighs, and the way he obeyed John’s request for patience, in keeping from touching himself when he clearly wanted to.

“Turn around,” John said, finally. 

Sherlock complied, resting his hands on the edge of the desk again; he considered leaning against it as well, but thought better of it. He watched through half-lidded eyes as John slowly got to his knees.

Much to Sherlock’s dismay, John seemed to be in no hurry. He ran his tongue lazily up the underside of Sherlock’s cock and slipped one hand between his legs to press two fingers into him. He spent a few moments simply sliding his fingers in and out of Sherlock, before concentrating on his prostate. He soon found it a bit difficult to focus on his task, especially with the little noises Sherlock was making. John glanced up as Sherlock reached over to run his fingers through his hair, while his other hand remained glued to the edge of the desk. 

John’s bad leg began to ache, but he paid no attention to it. The last tendrils of his afterglow were still coiling inside him, and he was hoping Sherlock was feeling as good as he felt. He tilted his eyes upwards again to find that Sherlock’s eyes had fallen shut. He pressed his fingertips against Sherlock’s prostate, taking his mouth off of him at the same time.

“Look at me,” said John. Sherlock opened his eyes to look down at John, and whimpered shamelessly, spreading his legs further. “Good,” he continued, lowering his head to take Sherlock into his mouth again.

Sherlock’s fingers scrabbled for purchase in John’s hair, and it was all the warning he got a chance to give as he came, hard, spilling himself into John’s mouth. Through lust-clouded eyes, he saw John draw back and swallow almost nonchalantly. 

John stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaning forward to kiss Sherlock, who moved away from the desk, and grimaced. John stepped back, looking at Sherlock with concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “It’s just…” 

He let his sentence trail off at the end, accompanying it with a gesture towards the floor. Or, more accurately, his lower half.

“Oh,” said John, as Sherlock’s meaning dawned on him. “Er, there’s a bathroom to the right of the door we came in through. Whoever designed this room must have known we would be visiting,” he continued, laughing to himself.

“Quite,” said Sherlock, gathering his clothes and not even attempting to suppress a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

Once Sherlock and John had sufficiently regained their composure, they unlocked the doors and strode down the corridor towards the ballroom, closing the library doors behind them. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floor, even reaching John and Sherlock as they made their way back. It seemed that the festivities hadn’t quieted at all in the time they’d been gone, and no one seemed to have noticed their absence. The sound of the upbeat pop song that had been playing faded out, its end bleeding smoothly into the slow song that followed.

“I don’t suppose you want to dance?” John said, looking over at Sherlock. 

Sherlock eyed him silently for a few seconds.

“You dance?” he asked.

A sheepish smile spread across John’s lips.

“No. Do you?”

“A discussion to be had another day. This is just a generic slow song. Come here,” said Sherlock, offering John his hand. 

John allowed himself to be led out onto the dance floor, before placing his hands on Sherlock’s hips. No one looked twice at them as Sherlock twined his arms around John’s neck. John’s motions were stiff until he began to relax and sway gently in tandem with Sherlock. He tucked his face into the side of Sherlock’s neck, and his fingers tightened around the slim hips.

The song was some sort of ballad about lost love, and it struck a chord somewhere in John. He gently pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, and felt his arms tighten around him in response.

_ No _ , John thought. The song did not tell their story. Sherlock had come back to him. Regardless, he was relieved when the song ended. Its last few notes blended into the beginning of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” A fair number of scattered chuckles from the attendees accompanied it. Several people, including John and Sherlock, opted to vacate the dance floor in favour of observing their fellow partygoers. 

“One dance I never learned,” said Sherlock.

“One of many dances I never did outside of my own bedroom,” John replied. Sherlock studied John’s face for a few seconds, searching for any indication that he was kidding. Sensing no such indication, Sherlock smiled a little. 

“Maybe you could teach me,” he said, his smile turning into a smirk.

John could tell that, underneath the smirk, Sherlock was being serious. Even with his vast mind palace of knowledge, Sherlock always seemed eager to learn anything John could teach him.

 

The rest of the party passed uneventfully, and the chiming of the clock that signified the arrival of two AM found John and Sherlock on the sofa, back at their flat. They were a mess of tangled limbs, sharing slow, lazy kisses. Neither of them had bothered to change out of their costumes, although John had slipped his dog tags around Sherlock’s neck with an exaggerated flourish in the taxi. The metal discs jingled as Sherlock fiddled absentmindedly with them, and the usual constant roar of the thoughts in his head quieted for the moment, dulled by the feeling of being surrounded by John. 

The feeling of contentment even blotted out the disappointment and frustration in himself that had slowly been growing, ever since the old woman, Agatha’s, body had been found, at least temporarily. Somehow, the tags seemed to comfort him a bit as well. Sherlock adjusted his position, moving so that he could nose at the crook of John’s neck. He felt John turn his head, and press a kiss to his temple.

“That wasn’t so awful, was it?” John asked, his mouth still pressed against Sherlock. Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “You are an absolute child sometimes,” he continued, not even attempting to hide his smile.

In the next instant, John found himself in a laughing heap on the floor, having been shoved off of the sofa by Sherlock. He watched as, in one fluid motion, Sherlock joined him on the floor, straddling his hips.

“It was… tolerable,” said Sherlock, leaning down to kiss John. “Although I daresay our little after-dinner excursion may have had a hand in it.”

John laughed, and the sound was immediately followed by a contented hum. He reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“We can add that to the list of mad things we’ve done lately,” John murmured, shifting his hips upwards against Sherlock’s.

  
  


John woke up the next morning as soon as his alarm went off. He and Sherlock had drifted off to sleep pressed up against each other in his bed. He rolled over to switch off his alarm, taking care not to wake Sherlock. The glowing red numbers of his alarm clock told him that it was seven forty-five. They had only gone to sleep at some point after three, which John was already starting to feel was a mistake. Having to go into the clinic first thing on a Saturday morning was one of his least favourite things. And now he could conclude that ‘especially after being up half the night beforehand’ was a valid addendum. 

The stack of folders that Marjorie handed him seemed mercifully short to John. He bit back a yawn as he checked his watch, before enquiring whether she had enjoyed herself at the party.

“That I did. Kate outdid herself this year, I think. I never know she had that many friends. Did you and er-- what was his name?-- Sherlock have a good time?” said Marjorie. 

“I wasn’t expecting that many people either, honestly. When I got the invitation, I just kind of assumed it would just be people from the clinic. Guess I was wrong. But yes, we had a good time. Parties aren’t really his thing, but I do think he had fun,” John replied, managing not to smirk as he said the last bit. He peeked at the file inside the folder at the top of the stack. “First patient’s due in at nine thirty. I’ll talk to you later, Marjorie.”

“All right, Doctor Watson, have a good one,” she replied.

“You too.”

 

When Sherlock awoke, he found himself alone in John’s bed. He wondered momentarily where John was, before spotting a sticky note stuck to the alarm clock on the bedside table. On it, John had written; ‘Sherlock- had to go into the clinic today. I mentioned it last night, but I expect you’ve forgotten. I’ll be home round five. Love you, John.’ Sherlock plucked the note off of the clock, and eyed it for a few seconds, smiling to himself.

Sherlock had just settled into his chair with a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. His eyes narrowed; he wasn’t expecting anyone. He placed John’s note on an end table and crossed his legs, before taking a sip of his tea. He heard the front door open, and Mrs. Hudson greeting the newcomer. Then he heard two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. One, Mrs. Hudson’s, was familiar, the other belonging to their guest.

_ A man _ , Sherlock concluded.

“Sherlock, dear, there’s a gentleman here to see you,” Mrs. Hudson said, after opening the door to the living room.

“I’m on a case already,” Sherlock replied, gesturing to the wall he’d covered in photos and scraps of paper.

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” said the newcomer, stepping out from behind Mrs. Hudson. He was a young man, not even in his thirties, with sandy hair and brown eyes. “My name’s Evan Harris, and--”

“Come in, Mr. Harris,” said Sherlock, displaying a rare moment of patience.

“Thank you,” Evan said to Mrs. Hudson.

“Not a problem,” she replied, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Evan offered Sherlock his hand, but lowered it when Sherlock didn’t reciprocate. He felt awkward, and spent a moment staring at Sherlock’s wall of photos and notes, and avoiding his eyes. 

“So, what can I help you with, Mr. Harris?” Sherlock asked, even though he already had a vague idea. Evan hadn’t stopped fiddling with his wedding band since he’d first spoke. Evan’s eyes travelled to John’s chair, and Sherlock gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat, and tell me about your wife.”

“My-- how?” Evan began, lowering himself onto the couch.

“I’m good at what I do, Mr. Harris.”

“Evan, please,” he replied, finally making eye contact with Sherlock.

“Evan.”

“Well, my wife’s name is Brittany, and she’s a primary school teacher. She’s been missing for two days. Neither me nor anyone else has seen hide nor hair of her since Thursday,” said Evan, reaching up to rotate his wedding ring again as he spoke.

Sherlock was very tempted to give the man the standard, ‘Your wife’s fed up with you and she’s run off to Florida’ explanation, but something wasn’t quite right. There was nothing he’d gathered that suggested Brittany had left Evan. There had to be another explanation. 

“Are you sure you’ve spoken with everyone?” Sherlock asked.

“Everyone except her parents, they--”

“Then it’s entirely possible she’s gone to spend some time with them, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but--”

“I suggest you get in touch with them, before you worry too much.”

“That’s true. Thanks for your time, Mr. Holmes,” said Evan, getting up from the sofa.

Sherlock said nothing, having turned his attention to his notes. Once Evan had left, Sherlock reached for his teacup, only to find that its contents were cold. With a sigh, Sherlock placed the cup back on the table, and briefly contemplated microwaving it, before he remembered that he’d moved his row of rotting apples into the microwave. 

The second time the doorbell rang, Sherlock was far less surprised than he had been when Evan showed up. He assumed the person at the door would be Evan again, returning to with the news that his wife had, indeed been spending time with her parents. However, it was not Evan who accompanied Mrs. Hudson up the stairs, but a little girl. She appeared to be about nine. Sherlock immediately deduced that she had two older brothers, did well in school, and owned a cat. The girl seemed to have swiftly taken a liking to Mrs. Hudson, and chose to hide behind her, peering around her legs at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, this is Abby,” said Mrs. Hudson, gesturing to the girl. Sherlock stepped closer to her and bent down to the girl’s level. 

“Your cat is just fine. One of your brothers took her with him when he left home. I’d just phone him and ask him why,” Sherlock said.

“You’re being strangely agreeable today,” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, after shutting the front door behind Abby. “Especially since you haven’t been in the best way, ever since they found that woman’s body. You’ve been running yourself ragged ever since. I hear you sometimes, beating yourself up about it. I just--  Any particular reason you seem better today?” she continued, walking up the stairs towards him. 

“Just in a good mood,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John’s note. As he said it, he realised it was true. Even in light of his frustration with himself and lack of headway on the case, the Hallowe’en party-- especially what had happened during and afterwards-- had lifted his spirits a bit. And he’d been able to ease a little girl’s fears about the fate of her cat, as well as not having to be the bearer of the news that a man’s wife had left him, so he wasn’t feeling too bad at the moment. 

“I’m glad,” said Mrs. Hudson, reaching up briefly to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. 

  
  


John spent his lunch hour with Marjorie, as he did occasionally. She sat at the same table in the cafeteria every day, eating whatever she’d brought with her from home that day. Once John had bought his own lunch, he sat down across the table from her. They spent a few minutes eating in comfortable silence.

“I’m glad I was able to meet your friend,” said Marjorie, absently screwing the cap back onto her bottle of water. “Because I know you’ve mentioned him before. I just like being able to put a face to a name.”

“Actually,” John began. “We’re… He’s… my better half.” The last few words came after a few seconds of fumbling. John still wasn’t sure how to label their relationship. It wasn’t something they’d discussed. Certainly they’d discussed different aspects of their relationship, including its status as both romantic and sexual, but they’d never quite gotten around to talking about what words they’d use to refer to each other.

“Ah,” Marjorie said, nodding. “He’s quite handsome.” John smiled. 

“Not sure why he puts up with me, then,” he replied, making a show of stroking his chin in a mock-thoughtful manner. 

“Oh stop!” said Marjorie, with a laugh.

For some reason, John was glad he’d clarified his and Sherlock’s relationship to Marjorie. She was gentle, easygoing, and had always treated him kindly. He had neither been hiding nor afraid of what any of his coworker’s reactions might be. They rarely spoke about their personal lives, which meant that the topic of significant others wasn’t one that came up often.

They spent the rest of the hour discussing the sudden influx of small children coming in suffering unprecedented allergic reactions. Both he and Marjorie were concerned, but the conversation topic eventually began to meander, and underneath it all, he still felt an inexplicable bit of happiness, although he wasn’t sure how inexplicable it could really be, when he knew exactly whom it pertained to.

  
  


Back at Baker Street that evening, Sherlock and John’s mutual good moods continued, and they agreed to order Chinese from their favourite take-away. John placed the plastic bag on the kitchen table and began to separate out the containers of food.

Once each of them was settled with a plate-- at the table for once, Sherlock’s experiments having temporarily been cleared off of its surface-- they traded stories about their respective days.

John’s day had thankfully been quiet, with most of his appointments consisting of prescription refills. He also relayed his conversation with Marjorie at lunch.

“Wait,” Sherlock said, laughing as he set his chopsticks down next to his plate. “You actually said, ‘my better half?’” John’s face flushed.

“I wasn’t sure what else to say!” he replied, only slightly indignant. 

“Whatever words you’d like to use are fine with me,” said Sherlock, reaching across the table to place his hand on top of John’s.

“Really?”

“Really. Well, unless it’s something completely insipid, like ‘honey bunny,’ in which case I’ll have to object,” said Sherlock.

“Well, shit, that was at the top of my list,” John replied.

“Are you serious?” Sherlock said, aghast.

“No, you mad bastard.”

“Good, because I much prefer ‘Pookie.’”

“You’re impossible.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

Somehow Sherlock knew that Lestrade was on the other end of the line-- without even looking at the caller ID-- when his mobile rang the next morning. It was barely eight o’clock. Sherlock yawned, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand as he answered the call with the other.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, suppressing another yawn.

“There’s been another one. It’s--” Lestrade began.

“Text me the address,” Sherlock interrupted. He ended the call and placed his mobile back on his bedside table. The display lit up less than five seconds later, alerting him to an incoming text from Lestrade. 

“Have they found another body?” John asked, sitting up in bed.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, slipping his night shirt up over his head and replacing it with a clean button-down. “A few streets over.”

“Did Lestrade say anything else?”

“No.” And with that, Sherlock left the room fully dressed before John had even gotten out of bed. 

The address that Sherlock received from Lestrade was close enough to Baker Street for them to walk.

“The flat where the body was found is unoccupied,” said Sherlock, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.

“That’s odd,” John replied. “The first two victims were found in their homes and the third was found in his office. Why would he murder someone in an unoccupied flat? Unless they weren’t killed there. But , then , why would he murder someone and then move the body to an unoccupied flat?”

“I don’t know. Why has he done anything?”

“Good point.”

A few moments later , they arrived at the address. The entire building seemed to be vacant. It had definitely seen better days. The bricks were crumbling in places, and the mortar between them was significantly greyed. Lestrade was waiting on the front stoop. When he spotted John and Sherlock, he locked his mobile screen and slid it into his pocket. He looked a bit thinner and paler since they’d last seen him.

“Lestrade,” John began, concerned. “You need food. And sleep.”

“I know,” said Lestrade. “There’s just been no time.”

“There’s not going to be a you, either, if you don’t slow down a bit.”

“We just-- We’re getting nowhere. And--”

Sherlock brushed past Lestrade, interrupting him. His lips were pursed, and John could tell he was quite close to saying something he would probably regret.

“He’s been beating himself up over this whole thing,” John explained.

“I didn’t mean it as a sleight. I’m just frustrated.”

“We all are,” said John, placing his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “But you can’t blame yourself for this.”

“What am I supposed to tell the victims’ families?”

“That you’re working on it. That you’re doing the best you can. It might not be what they want to hear, but you and I both know it’s the truth.” 

“You’re right,” Lestrade said, after a few seconds’ silence. “We are doing what we can. It seems like we’re spinning our wheels right now, but I believe in Sherlock, and I believe in you.” John smiled.

“We believe in you, too, Greg.”

“Right, that’s enough of the pity party. Victim’s name is Brittany Harris. Wallet was left in her purse, cash, ID, and credit cards all there.”

“What did she do?” John asked.

“She was… a primary school teacher,” Lestrade replied, after consulting his notes.

“So that means it’s unlikely that anyone was out to get her. Just like the others.”

“Exactly.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Exsanguination,” said Sherlock, joining John and Lestrade on the stoop once more.

“Then isn’t it possible it was a suicide? Depending on the wound patterns,” John replied.

“No. She’s tied to a chair, with her hands bound to its arms. Her wrists had been slit from the heels of her hands to the crooks of her arms. She also has the number eight carved into her left shoulder, and it was done post-mortem, with the same blade as the others,” Sherlock explained, not bothering to give John a chance to take out his notepad.

The information that Sherlock had given John filled up three pages in his notepad. He scanned the pages quickly, and his face fell. If the woman had been conscious during the attack, the pain would have been excruciating.

“Was she conscious?” John asked quietly.

“Sorry?”

“Was she conscious during her murder?”

“Doubtful. There was a puncture mark on the side of her neck. There’s no way to tell what she was injected with until she’s been to see Molly, although I suspect it was ketamine, since we are dealing with the same perpetrator as the other murders,” said Sherlock. John made a few more notes and stepped past Sherlock into the corridor. 

“I still want to examine her for myself,” John called over his shoulder. As he made his way down the corridor , it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Lestrade which flat the crime had taken place in. Then he saw that the door at the end of the corridor was criss-crossed with yellow tape. The crime scene technicians looked up as John entered the room, returning to their tasks as they recognised him.

John asked one of the technicians for a pair of gloves, and pulled them on as he approached the chair to which Brittany was still tied. The carpet around the chair made an unpleasant squishing noise as John stepped on it. The edges of the wounds were jagged, as if they had been made with the same blade as the number. He circled the chair slowly, examining first the wounds, then the puncture mark, and then the number. Out of all the markings on the body, the number was the most perplexing. He still could not fathom what the meaning behind the numbers could be.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to John as he stood in the living room of the flat. It didn’t seem as though the killer was going to be giving up anytime soon, and they were no closer to apprehending him. John hadn’t been scheduled to be in the clinic that day, but he was due in at nine the next morning. He thought about Kate and felt guilty. She had given him a job and a purpose when his life was in shambles. And she deserved to have a doctor on her staff who wasn’t running off every other day to chase a murderer. 

“Lestrade,” John began. “What family did she have?”

“A husband,” said Lestrade. “Evan. Evan Harris.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock demanded, his eyes widening.

“The husband’s name is Evan Harris.”

“Christ,” Sherlock whispered, looking away.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Evan Harris was in our flat yesterday, and he’d wanted me to help him find his wife, Brittany, who’d been missing for two days.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” said John, stepping forward to wrap his arms around the detective. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have. I told him she’d gone off to see her parents.”

“I’m sure she had. But you had no way of knowing that this was going to happen. Even you are not a fortune teller.”

“But--”

“But nothing. None of this is your fault. Look, I need to go talk to Kate, because I don’t feel right juggling the clinic and the investigations anymore. Then we can go talk to the husband together, okay?”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, trying to sound more confident than he actually was. John frowned.

“I can talk to her later. I’d feel bad leaving you alone right now.”

“John, I am  _ fine _ . Go talk to her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m not a child.”

“Okay. I’ll see you back at home,” John said, still feeling conflicted. He pecked Sherlock once on the lips, and stepped off the stoop to call himself a taxi.

“He’s right, you know,” said Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t reply and simply turned to walk back into the building.

  
  


To John, the ride to the clinic seemed to take forever, while simultaneously feeling like it was over very quickly. It was an odd feeling, but John tried to ignore it and attributed it to the apprehension he felt about the conversation he was about to have with Kate.

The cab let John out right in front of the clinic. He paid the driver, and took a deep breath, and a moment to steel his nerves before walking through the door. 

Marjorie looked up at the sound of the door opening, and when she saw that John was the person who’d entered, her face quickly shifted from her pleasant ‘How may I help you?’ smile to a look of confusion.

“John,” she began. “You’re not scheduled to be in today. Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine. I just need to talk to Kate. Is she around?”

“Up in her office. She should be able to see you. It’s been pretty quiet today.”

“Thanks,” said John, making an attempt at a smile. He would have to tell her on his way out. Another conversation he wasn’t looking forward to having. He crossed the waiting room and pressed the button to call the elevator.

The door to Kate’s office was closed when John stepped out of the elevator. He approached the door and sighed, before raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. 

“Come in!” Kate called. John opened the door and stepped into the office. Kate was seated behind her desk, reading through a sheaf of paper and simultaneously scribbling on an index card. She looked up as John closed the door behind him. “John,” she began. “What brings you in on your day off?”

“Well,” said John, unsure of how to begin. “Have you got a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure thing,” she replied. She placed the cap back on her pen and shifted the packet of paper to the side. “Have a seat.” She gestured to a chair across the desk from her. John lowered himself into the chair and folded his hands in his lap. 

“First off, I want to apologise for being so scarce recently. I can’t give you all the details, but people are being killed.”

“I know. And it’s not your fault.”

“I… I need to go. To give my two weeks’ notice.”

“But why?”

“This killer isn’t showing any signs of stopping, and you deserve to have a doctor on your staff who isn’t calling out every other day to chase a murderer. I hate to leave, but I don’t feel like keeping on this way.” 

“If your mind’s made up then that’s all, isn’t it? I-- reluctantly, mind you-- accept your resignation. I hate to see you go, though.” Kate said, sadly.

“I hate to have to go,” said John.

“Unfortunately I can’t hold the position indefinitely, but if you ever want to come back, just drop me a line.”

“Of course, of course. I understand, and I will. I’ll also be coming in on the days I’m scheduled these next two weeks.”

“Thanks, John.”

“No, thank you. This job, came into my life when I really needed it.”

Kate smiled slightly and for a second John thought she was going to say something else. However, she seemed to think better of it. After a few more seconds, the silence began to feel a bit awkward.

“I should go home,” said John. “I’ll be in tomorrow morning.” He got up from the chair, and Kate did the same. She offered him her hand and he took it. They shook hands, and John went on his way.

“Bye John,” Kate said, as John closed the office door behind him. 

  
  


Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, flipping through a packet of papers that John could only assume was the preliminary reports from Molly. A half-empty teacup sat on the end table, and he groped for it with his free hand. 

“I’m back,” said John, hanging up his jacket, even though it was likely they’d be heading out again soon.

“How’d it go?” Sherlock asked, refraining from prefacing his reply with, ‘I know.’ John settled himself in his chair, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“About as well as you’d expect,” he replied.

In truth, the conversation he’d had with Kate was quite a bit easier that talking to Marjorie. He’d grown friendly with her in the time he’d been at the clinic. She had gotten a bit teary-eyed when John explained that he was leaving and his reasons for doing so. She’s also given him her email address, and he’d promised to keep in touch.

Once John had relayed his conversations with Kate and Marjorie, Sherlock passed him the packet of papers. John quickly read through the reports, and was slightly relieved to discover that Molly had indeed found ketamine in the dead woman’s bloodstream.

_ Not that it’s all that much of a comfort _ , John thought to himself, trying not to remember the sheer volume of blood that had been present at the scene.

“I’ve still no clue about what the numbers mean, or any of this!” said Sherlock, gesturing to the wall of photos and notes. John placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Me either, but I know you’ll figure it out,” John replied. “But we need to talk to the husband.”

“I know,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

Sherlock spent the entire cab ride to the Harris flat fidgeting and muttering to himself. He calmed down noticeably as John rested a hand on his thigh, although the muttering continued. 

“Shall  break the news to him?” John asked.

“What? Oh, sure. Sure,” said Sherlock, not quite paying attention.

The door opened as John’s fist was moving to knock a second time.

“Britt, is that--” Evan began, finding himself facing John and Sherlock instead. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Holmes. I thought you weren’t taking on my case. Any news?” 

Sherlock glanced at the floor, and then at John.

“Er, that’s actually what we’re here to talk to you about. Would it be alright if we came in?” asked John.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” said Evan, opening the door wider. “That’d be fine. Come on in.” He stepped aside to allow them to walk past him into the flat. He gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.” John and Sherlock settled themselves on the sofa, and Evan lowered himself into a nearby armchair. 

“Mr. Harris,” John began, resisting a sudden urge to wring his hands. “We found your wife this morning. She-- She had been murdered.”

Before Sherlock could even react, Evan hoisted him off of the sofa by his collar, and punched him straight in the mouth. Sherlock staggered back half a step, and John instinctively placed himself between Evan and Sherlock, his own hand curling into a fist. However, Sherlock grabbed onto John’s arm before he could retaliate. 

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock said quietly, wiping at the trickle of blood issuing from the cut in his lower lip. John slowly opened his hand. Sherlock turned to Evan. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We believe she had been to see her parents, and was abducted from there.”

“So you  were right,” Evan began. “Mr. Holmes, I--”

“Only about some of the facts. I should have listened. If I had…” Sherlock’s sentence trailed off at the end. John pursed his lips, and wondered where Sherlock was going with his current train of thought. He knew that the guilt Sherlock felt was very real, but he also knew that Sherlock would never just share his emotions with someone like this.

“This isn’t your fault, Mr. Holmes. I know you weren’t the one who did this to her.”

“Mr. Harris, is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your wife?” John asked. Evan returned to his armchair.

“She is-- was a primary school teacher. What sort of enemies could someone like that possibly have?” Evan replied. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and John followed suit, after taking his notepad out of his pocket. He jotted down what had already been said, and contemplated Evan’s question for a moment before speaking again.

“True,” said John. “What about strangers, or anyone who seemed out of place?”

“Actually, yes. About a week or so ago, a man came to our door, saying he was from some courier service. He said he had a parcel for Brittany. I had a bad feeling about him, even though the only view I had of him was obscured by either her or the door,” Evan replied. John caught Sherlock’s eye and knew they were both thinking about how the lawyer’s secretary had told a similar story. 

“Did you get a look at him at all?”

“Only a quick glance.”

“From what you could see; what did he look like?”

“He was white, with stringy blond hair,” said Evan. John must have looked surprised. “Why? Is he the one who did this?”

“We don’t know. Did your wife ever open the parcel?”

“Yes, and it upset her very much. It was the most bizarre thing. When my wife’s brother died, we put a decorative stone in our garden in his honour, because gardening was his favourite thing. The stone was stolen a few months ago. Brittany was devastated. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would do such a thing. The stone was in the parcel.”

“That is very strange,” John agreed, scribbling in his notepad.

“Why would he do that?” Sherlock murmured.

“Who?” said Evan.

“The killer,” John replied. “Sherlock has a habit of thinking out loud.”

“Oh.”

“We won’t keep you,” said John, rising from the sofa. “Thank you for your time, and we’re sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” Evan replied, shaking John’s hand. He turned to Sherlock. “And I apologise for striking you.” Sherlock nodded and offered Evan his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

The next two weeks passed relatively peacefully for John, as if to spite him. No other victims had turned up, and John’s last days at the clinic were generally quiet.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was no closer to a breakthrough in the case, and it was wearing on him. The day after John’s last day at the clinic, Sherlock spent the entirety of the day in his chair, his long legs tucked up underneath him. A stone cold slice of toast sat near him on a plate, buried under a pile of papers. It hadn’t been touched since John had placed it there that morning.

“You know,” said John. “Your brain is eventually going to stop working if you never put food in your stomach.” Sherlock gave no indication that he’d heard John, and continued to study his notes. “You’re stuck with me full time again,” John said, teasingly. 

“It is rather unfortunate.”

“Sorry?”

“That you had to leave the clinic, I mean.”

John approached Sherlock and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Various crime scene photos were scattered on the table in front of him. John noticed that most of them were of Thomas, the lawyer. He wondered why Sherlock was focusing on them rather than the most recent photos. He picked one up from the pile; it was a close-up of the apple that had been sitting on Thomas’ desk.

“What’s the significance of this?” John asked, holding up the photo. Sherlock glanced over at him.

“I have a hypothesis, but it’s fairly far-fetched. I’m still working on it,” said Sherlock.

“Well, what’s the hypothesis?”

“Jim Moriarty.”

“What? But he’s--”

“Dead? I know. But that’s the hypothesis.” Sherlock dug his mobile out from under a bunch of papers, and began to type. “I need to speak to Lestrade.”

John sat down in his chair and waited while Sherlock texted back and forth with Lestrade. His brain was mulling over Sherlock’s hypothesis.

“Lestrade says he’s got a few minutes right now. Are you coming?” Sherlock asked. John was still lost in thought and it took him a moment to reply.

“Of course.”

  
  


Lestrade was waiting outside his office when John and Sherlock arrived.

“Have you figured it out?” Lestrade asked, ushering them into his office. They sat down in the chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk.

“Unfortunately, no. But I’ve got a bit of a working hypothesis, although I have a feeling you’re not going to like it,” said Sherlock. 

_ I doubt he likes any of this _ , John thought to himself. Lestrade simply eyed Sherlock, and John could read a similar sentiment on his face.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock said.

“Jim Mor-- He’s  _ dead _ , Sherlock. Unlike some people in this room, he didn’t fake his death,” Lestrade replied. Sherlock said nothing for a moment.

“Have you gone and tried to find out whether the mystery deliveryman had been to the other victims’ residences?” asked John.

“Not yet,” said Lestrade. “That was next on the agenda when he texted.” He gestured to Sherlock with him chin.

“Oh.”

“Would you care to come along?” The question was directed to Sherlock.

The first stop they made was to see Krista, Agatha’s daughter. The three of them had all piled into the same taxi, but no one spoke for the entire duration of the car ride, except for when Lestrade gave the driver the address. John wondered whether he should be the one to talk to her, since he had been the one who’d spoken with her during her stay in the hospital. Lestrade seemed to read John’s mind. 

“I think it’d be best if you talked to her, John,” he said.

Krista opened the door wearing an oversized jumper, and holding a coffee mug in one hand. There were slight dark circles under her eyes, as if she’d been getting some sleep, but not much. A tabby cat wound its way around her ankles, peering curiously at the newcomers.

“Jack, get back inside,” she said to the cat, gesturing to the room behind her with the hand not holding the mug. It took her a few seconds to return her attention to her visitors. “Oh! Mr. Watson,” she said, meeting John’s eye. 

“Just John, please,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s difficult, but I’m managing.” She looked over her shoulder into the sitting room behind her. “Flat’s a bit messy, but would you like to come in?”

“Please. There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

She took a step back to allow John, Sherlock, and Lestrade to walk past her into the sitting room. Nothing in the room could have been mistaken for a mess; the closest thing was a messily-folded quilt that had been placed on the back of the sofa. The cat had settled himself on the quilt. 

“I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, from the Yard,” John began, gesturing to each in turn.

“Krista. Krista Bates,” she replied, shaking hands with both of them. “Have a seat, please, and tell me what’s been going on.”

As soon as they were all seated, Krista drew her legs up underneath her, and glanced nervously at John.

“So, have you found the person who killed my mother?”

“Well,” John began, unsure of how much he should say. “We’re looking for someone who we think might be involved.”

“Who is it?” Krista asked, suddenly leaning forward in her chair.

“Did your mother mention receiving anything in the post recently?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. If she had, she didn’t say anything to me. Is it important?”

“Would the landlord know?” Lestrade asked.

“Heavens, no!” Krista replied. “They never got on well. It’s beyond me why she stayed there so long.”

As soon as she’d starting speaking, John pulled out his notepad, and flipped back a few pages to his first conversation with her. He was suddenly reminded of the way Sherlock had posed as Krista’s husband to gain entry to her mother’s flat. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea whether or not she actually had a husband.

“Are you married?” he asked. She eyed him for a few seconds before answering.

“No, I’m not,” said Krista, reaching out to pet the cat as he leapt up onto her lap. For a second, John wondered whether the landlord had known that when he’d let Sherlock into the flat, before realising that it was doubtful, given Agatha’s relationship with him.

Their next destination was the flat of Megan, the second victim’s girlfriend. She had moved since the murder, and had been kind enough to phone Lestrade to inform him. She opened the door, yawning and rubbing at her eyes, in a rumpled hoodie and jeans-- as if she’d slept in her clothes the previous night. It took her a few seconds to recognise the men at her door. She smiled slightly, saying something about how she wished one of them would have called ahead to let her know they were coming. Lestrade offered apologies, and she led them through the entranceway into a small but neat sitting room.

“So, what did you need to talk to me about?” Megan asked, looking at Sherlock, John, and Lestrade in turn. “If it were news or some kind of status update, I would have gotten a phone call, or nothing,” she continued. John frowned.

“She’s right, you know,” said Sherlock. “The current workload of everyone involved leaves little to no room for status updates.”

“We’re here because we found someone we think might be connected,” John said, acting as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

“A suspect?” Megan asked.

“Possibly. So far we know of two victims he had contact with in the weeks before their deaths,” Lestrade told her. “Had Mallory received any sort of parcels in the post recently?”

“Parcels? Yes. About four days before she died, Mal got a really small box by courier.”

“Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. He was blond, and a bit creepy,” said Megan, her shrug followed by a visible shudder. John looked over at Sherlock and attempted to catch his eye, but Sherlock was completely focused on Megan.

“What was in the parcel?” Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers and studying Megan over his fingertips.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “She never told me, and I knew better than to pry. Whatever it was, she was depressed for two days afterwards.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he processed the new information. He needed to know what was in the parcel. He doubted it would shed any light on the situation at hand, but he thought one less mystery-- even a small one-- would be nice.

“Do you happen to know where she put the box after she received it?” Lestrade asked.

Megan didn’t answer for a long moment. She toyed with a loose thread at the edge of her sleeve and avoided Lestrade’s eyes. Sherlock could plainly see how uncomfortable she was with the idea of snooping through her dead girlfriend’s possessions, and possibly discovering something she hadn’t been meant to see.

“I saw her put it in the bottom drawer of her desk. When I cleaned out her side of the room, I put the stuff from her desk all in one box. I had contemplated throwing the parcel out, because it had upset her so much, but something told me not to. The box is in the back of my closet. Just let me fetch the parcel. I just hope it will be able to help you out in some way,” Megan replied. “Because god knows it didn’t do her any good.” 

She got up from the sofa and disappeared into her bedroom for several minutes, during which not a single word was spoken. She returned carrying a box that could easily have fit in the palm of her hand. The three men peered cautiously at it, each separately wondering what it could possibly contain. Megan settled herself back into her chair, placed the box in her lap and simply stared at it.

Another long moment passed, and John reached for the box, but Megan snatched it away before his fingers even touched the cardboard. She carefully worked the flaps open and drew a wadded-up ball of tissue paper out of the box. The paper was creased in such a way that suggested it had been carefully folded at some point.

Sherlock concluded that the paper had been neatly wrapped around its contents when the parcel had been packed, but in her emotionally-compromised state, Mallory had simply stuffed it back into the box. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the paper crinkling.

Inside the tissue paper was a tiny gold pendant on a thin matching chain. It glinted in the light as Megan held it up in front of her, and spun it slowly to examine it.

“Evan?” she whispered.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked, staring at her.

She passed him the pendant without another word. As he wound the chain through his fingers, Sherlock noticed the curly letters engraved into one side. They spelled ‘EVAN.’ Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he turned the pendant over in his hand. Carved into the other side was the image of a cross.

“John,” he said softly. “Look at this.” He held the necklace out to John, dropping it into his outstretched hand.

“Evan?” John asked, after examining the inscription. “Isn’t that the name of--”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He frowned. He couldn’t fathom how the two of them could be connected, unless they had somehow known each other. The pendant twisted on its chain as Sherlock continued to examine it. “Did Mallory know anybody by the name ‘Evan?’” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” Megan replied. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t. There were some things in her past that she never wanted to tell me about. I figured they were painful for her.”

_ It’s unlikely her parents knew anything either, considering the estranged state of their relationship at the time of her death _ , Sherlock thought to himself.

“I’ve just had an idea,” Megan said, accepting the pendant back from John. “I have Mal’s old diaries that go back to at least her thirteenth birthday. They’re in a box of her things that I brought with me from our old flat.”

“Hmm, it’s likely that if this person were important enough that the pendant affected her as deeply as it seems to, she would have written about it, if she wrote in them regularly,” said John.

“Oh, she did. She was forever scribbling in one notebook or another. If you give me a day or so I can read through them and let you know if I find anything.”

“It would be quicker and more efficient if I did it myself,” said Sherlock. He considered adding ‘and more thorough,’ but decided against it. She pursed her lips and he could see that she wanted to protest.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful with them, okay?” She drew her legs up underneath her and hugged her knees to her chest. The position and the worried look on her face made her look much younger than she actually was.

Sherlock nodded, and at the same time, John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

After dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Megan slid out of her chair. She returned a few moments later carrying a small stack of notebooks, and set them down on the coffee table.

“Make sure you give them back,” she said, reaching up to chew on one of her fingernails. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in a bit, so--”

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” said Lestrade, getting up from his chair.

Sherlock and John took their own taxi back from Megan’s flat and said goodbye to Lestrade, even though all three of them knew it was very likely that they’d be speaking to each other again soon. John had the stack of notebooks on his lap, and refrained from flipping the top one open. Sherlock had already outlined his plans for sifting through the diaries, and those plans called for him to be the only one to read them. At first, John had protested, saying that it would be quicker for both of them to be reading, but soon gave up when he realised Sherlock had already made up his mind.

Once they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock immediately settled himself in his chair, with the stack of notebooks on an end table next to him and a notepad in his lap. John sat down at the table and booted up his laptop. There wasn’t too much more for him to blog about since his last post, but it was more appealing to him at that moment than trying to do the crossword.

The first two notebooks consisted of a thirteen-year-old Mallory complaining about school and her father. Sherlock skimmed the next two, finding more of the same. He found the girl’s father and step-brother to be particularly loathsome. He found himself pitying her. 

Sherlock had made a few notes, although nothing seemed terribly important at first glance. There was no mention of anyone named Evan thus far. Sherlock looked up from the notebook he was reading and glanced over at John.

“Find anything?” John asked.

“Nothing relevant as of yet,” replied Sherlock, returning his attention to the book. He resumed reading as John got up from his place at the table.

“It might help if you looked at something a little more recent,” John said, glancing over Sherlock’s shoulder to get a look at the date at the top of the page.

“Yes, but it’s more thorough to do it this way. I’ve almost finished with this one, though.”

The next several hours passed in relative silence. Occasionally, Sherlock would mutter to himself or scribble something out on his notepad. John hadn’t spoken in at least forty minutes. His previous enquiry about whether Sherlock was hungry had gone unanswered, and he hadn’t felt the need to ask again. He was mildly surprised when Sherlock finally spoke.

“John, come look at this,” he said, passing a notebook over the coffee table to John, where he’d settled in his chair.

John scanned both sides of the page that the notebook was open to. At first, he couldn’t see what had drawn Sherlock’s attention, so he read through them more carefully. The handwriting was curly and difficult to read, but he managed. Nothing on the pages seemed relevant, even after he’d read them more closely. He was about to ask Sherlock what, exactly, he was looking at, when he saw it. 

Scrawled in the margins were three words, and a letter.

_ I love Evan H. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

John stared at the inscription in the margin for a long moment. It couldn’t possibly be the same person as the most recent victim’s husband. Could it? He looked over at Sherlock, his confusion evident on his face.

“It can’t be the same man, can it?” John asked. “I mean, he’s several years older than she was. Not that that really means anything.”

“I’m not sure. Although I was a bit suspicious about the fact that he came to see me, and not the police , after she’d already been missing for two days,” Sherlock replied.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, the fact that Evan had come to him before the police had only registered as a blip on his ‘suspicious’ radar. It was only in conjunction with Mallory’s parcel that the blip seemed to expand into something more questionable.

“I’ll have to read further to find out,” said Sherlock. He reached out to accept the notebook from John and reached up to massage his temples with his other hand. He was used to pouring over books for hours at a time, but Mallory’s handwriting was very difficult to read. He could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at his skull.

In the time Sherlock had been distracted, John had gotten up from his chair and gently pressed a kiss to the detective’s temple.

“How about some tea and ibuprofen?” John suggested. Sherlock made an affirmative noise and slowly opened the notebook again.

  
  


About an hour later, the teacup on the end table was almost empty, and the throbbing pain in Sherlock’s head had mostly abated. He was nearly asleep in his chair as he flipped the last page of the notebook he was currently reading. He scanned the page with waning interest, until his eyes fell on the inside of the back cover. Written over a dozen times in that same curly handwriting, surrounded by little hearts, were the words;  

_ Mrs. Evan Holloway _

 

Sherlock slapped the notebook shut, and heaved an exasperated sigh. He’d wasted several hours on a hunch and had nothing to show for it. He felt foolish for entertaining the notion that the two Evans could have possibly been the same person.

“They aren’t the same person,” said Sherlock, noting the concerned look on John’s face.

“No?”

“Unfortunately not. Now we’re back to square one, which, as I’m sure you remember, consisted almost entirely of nothing. I need to phone Lestrade.”

“I can see why you thought there was a connection, though, because--” John began, stopping as he realised Sherlock was stacking the notebooks, deliberately avoiding looking at him.

“Lestrade?” said Sherlock. “Are you still in? There’s something I need. I’ll be there soon.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” John asked as Sherlock hung up with Lestrade.

“It would probably be best if I went alone,” Sherlock replied. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  
  


Once Sherlock hailed a cab, he climbed in and gave the driver the address. As the car pulled away from the curb, Sherlock stared out the window and wondered absently whether Lestrade would be willing to help him. His mobile pinged, and he slid it out of his pocket and glanced at the lit screen. It was a message from John.

“Taking the notebooks back, since you said we were back to square one,” it read.

Just as Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket, the car slowed to a stop. He paid the driver and climbed out onto the pavement. He straightened his coat, and for a second, he could have sworn he saw someone staring at him, out of the corner of his eye. 

The person was already in motion by the time he turned around to get a better look. All he saw was a flash of blond hair, and the person was gone, having taken off down the street at a sprint. Sherlock’s first instinct was to give chase, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up. Under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t have a problem doing so, but the street around him was uncharacteristically crowded.

The building was buzzing with activity, as if to mirror the current state of Sherlock’s mind. Were he to be completely honest with himself, his brain was also uncharacteristically crowded.

Lestrade glanced up as Sherlock entered his office. The surface of his desk was nearly covered in papers, much like the wall of the sitting room back at Baker Street. However, instead of expanding vertically, Lestrade’s clutter had grown horizontally. As Sherlock settled himself in a chair across from Lestrade, the phone on the desk began to ring. Lestrade sifted through several piles of paper before unearthing the phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear and immediately grimaced.

“I told you ‘No comment.’ Don’t phone me again,” he snapped, setting the receiver back in the cradle with a little more force than necessary. He returned his attention to Sherlock, and his face softened visibly.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“As much as can be expected. There’s a tabloid reporter who’s been phoning me because he thinks there’s more to the story than we’re letting on, which, of course, there is, but there are some aspects of the cases that we’re not sharing with the press,” Lestrade explained. “The most recent time, the caller said ‘There could be any number of things you’re keeping to yourselves.’ He put an odd emphasis on the word ‘number,’ and I can’t tell whether it was just a coincidence, or if he somehow knows, or even if he’s connected.” Sherlock frowned.

“There’s hardly ever such a thing as ‘just a coincidence,’” Sherlock replied.

“You’re right,” Lestrade admitted. “But you’re not here about a persistent tabloid reporter, are you?”

“Unfortunately not. I… I need to see Jim Moriarty’s autopsy report,” Sherlock said, quietly. Lestrade didn’t reply right away, but simply stared at him for several seconds.

“I can’t. And even if I could, what in the hell would you even expect to find in there?”

_ Answers? _ Sherlock thought to himself. But, to Lestrade, he said, “I don’t know. Three words I am loath to utter, but it’s true. I’m just looking at anything and everything at this point.” 

Three corpses later, Sherlock was still no closer to a culprit, or a solution, than he had been when the first body had been found. He said nothing when Lestrade place a manila folder on the desk in front of him. The tab at the edge of the folder had the words, ‘Moriarty, James’ written on it on neat, blocky letters. Sherlock found himself feeling relieved that the tab did not read, ‘Brook, Richard.’

Clipped to the inside of the front cover of the folder was the autopsy report. Sherlock spent several long minutes reading it, but everything about the charts looked normal, from the birth and death dates at the top, to the illegible signature at the bottom.

“Listen,” Lestrade began, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’ve  _ got _ to give up on this angle.”

Sherlock said nothing and began flipping through the rest of the papers in the folder. They appeared to be Lestrade’s notes and various reports concerning the cases in which Moriarty was known to have been involved. It was highly likely that there were a great many more cases in which he was involved. Sherlock shook his head side to side, as if to jar the thoughts from his mind. They retreated, momentarily, but he could still sense them at the edge of his consciousness.

As he’d expected, Sherlock gleaned exactly nothing from the autopsy report or the rest of the papers in the folder. He handed the folder back to Lestrade without a word, offering thanks, however, as he took his leave.

The paperwork had thoroughly pushed all thoughts of the mystery blond person from Sherlock’s mind, but as he sat in the taxi on his way back to Baker Street, his curiosity returned full force. Under ordinary circumstances, the odds were fairly high that the person was anything other than a nondescript pedestrian. However, the circumstances were the furthest thing from ordinary.

“Well? What did Lestrade have to say?” John asked as Sherlock hung up his coat.

“What? Oh, nothing,” Sherlock replied.

“Then why the extra trip over there?”

Sherlock sighed. He might as well share his thoughts with John sooner rather than later. Even though he’d hit a dead end, he still found that bouncing his thoughts off of John had proved to be useful in the past. 

“I asked him for a chance to read through Jim Moriarty’s autopsy report,” said Sherlock.

John suppressed the urge to go off on a minor tirade that had suddenly manifested in him. He knew Sherlock’s brain was constantly making leaps that his own often could not, but even so, he still couldn’t fathom where the connection had been made. John pursed his lips.

“Did it help at all?”

“You know full well it didn’t, or else you would have received a jubilant phone call beginning with ‘John, I figured it out!’” Sherlock replied, miming talking on the phone as he did so. 

“There’s no need to get cross with me. I was only curious,” John snapped. Sherlock sank into his chair.

“I know. I’ve just been wasting so much time. First with this Moriarty nonsense, then the diaries, then right on back to this Moriarty nonsense.”

“You might feel like you’re wasting time, but you’re just doing what you think is best at the time.”

Sherlock said nothing, although he appreciated John’s words.

“There’s something else,” Sherlock began. He drew his legs up underneath him, not even bothering to remove his shoes. He gestured to John’s chair, and once John was seated, he explained his not-quite run-in with the blond stranger.

“Weird,” said John. He didn’t say anything else for awhile, and Sherlock could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he connected the dots.

“That’s a contender for the understatement of the decade. Not quite the century, however,” Sherlock replied, with a bit of a smirk.

“Git,” said John, swatting Sherlock playfully on the shoulder as he rose and crossed the sitting room to boot up his laptop.

John didn’t plan on writing up another blog entry, since no new information had come to light. However, he’d been keeping a private document just for his notes and thoughts, including the information that Lestrade had requested that he not post.

“You really should try to get some rest,” John said. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“What day is it?”

“That’s beside the point.”

Sherlock put the photos he was currently examining into a small stack on the coffee table. His mind was still wide awake, but he could feel his body slowing down.

_ Transport _ , he thought to himself, frowning.

Once Sherlock was settled in his bed, he was glad that he’d gone along with John’s recommendation that he get some rest. He rolled over to face the wall and watched as the shadows began to creep steadily across its surface. He was nearly asleep when he felt John climb into bed next to him.

“G’night,” Sherlock murmured sleepily.

“Good night,” John replied, pressing himself up against Sherlock. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "handjobs" tag applies to this chapter. If you would like to avoid this content, but still read the chapter, simply skip the first paragraph.
> 
> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he was comfortably warm, with John’s arms twined around his waist. The sun was streaming through the curtains. As Sherlock leaned toward the bedside table to pick up his mobile, he felt John’s arms tighten around him, and John’s lips at the side of his neck. One of John’s hands slid down the front of his pajama bottoms. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he felt John’s fingers close around his half hard cock. John stroked him lazily, occasionally adding a slight twist of the wrist as he reached the sensitive spot near the underside of the tip. Sherlock’s soft, even breathing was punctuated by a sharp gasp as John’s hand began to move faster. He came a few minutes later, moaning as his hips moved against John’s hand, seeking more friction. John stroked him through the aftershocks, whispering filthy things in his ear.

“As much as I appreciate it, was there a reason behind that?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve been rather frazzled lately, and I thought a bit of stress relief might be in order,” John replied, gently tracing his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s side.

“Thank you. And I have been and probably will be for the foreseeable future,” said Sherlock. “But that was a pleasant momentary distraction.” He rolled over and reached for John’s waistband. However, John shook his head, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own.

“Not necessary. This was for you,” John said, before kissing Sherlock on the cheek and climbing out of bed.

Sherlock had left his mobile in the sitting room the previous night. When John came out of the kitchen, he noticed it was still on the table. The display was lit up, showing one missed call from Lestrade. John picked up the phone, and turned around, intending to bring it to Sherlock, instead finding Sherlock standing behind him.

“Missed call from Lestrade,” said John, placing the phone in Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

Sherlock had a feeling he knew what Lestrade was calling to tell him. There were really only two options; either they had made headway in identifying the killer, or another body had been found. He pursed his lips and lifted the phone to his ear.

“There’s been another,” Lestrade said, as soon as he picked up the call.

“Text me the address.”

A half hour later, John and Sherlock met Lestrade at the address he had provided. The address belonged to a small, neatly-kept bakery. A logo had been painted on the glass storefront. It read, “Georgia’s Café & Bakery.” It seemed to be hand-painted, and depicted an elaborately-decorated cupcake next to a steaming coffee mug, with the shop name above it in white calligraphy-style letters. The same image had been reproduced on the front of the awning above the door.

The body was that of Georgia Walker, the woman who had owned the bakery. Sherlock immediately pointed out that asphyxiation was the cause of death. He accepted a rubber glove from Lestrade, and bent down to examine the body. With his gloved hand, he carefully lifted one of her eyelids.

“Petechiae present in the eyes,” he said.

She had been discovered by one of the women who had worked with her. John sat down with the woman at one of the spindly tables that occupied the main room.

“I’m Sharon,” said the woman, nervously folding her hands in her lap.

“John Watson. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I came in early this morning, because we’ve got a big order that we’ve been working on for awhile, and I found her in the kitchen.”

“Is there anyone you can think of that might have wanted to hurt her?” John asked, pulling his notepad out of his pocket. Sharon stared at him for a few seconds.

“How could you think that?” she whispered.

“Routine question,” said John.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was crouched next to Georgia’s body. A ligature mark was present around her neck, and the number three had been carved into the area around her left bicep. Sherlock deduced that the cut had been made with the same serrated blade as the others.

“He’s finally given us something,” Sherlock said as he examined the ligature mark with his magnifier. Lestrade gaped at him.

“What?”

“Ms. Walker was 5’10” tall. This ligature mark slants downwards from the front of her neck to the back. Her assailant strangled her from behind, and he’s shorter than her.”

“So he’s shorter than 5’10”; that’s not much to go on,” said Lestrade.

“It’s more than we had before.”

“That’s true.”

John’s conversation with Sharon was proving to be about as enlightening as Sherlock’s examination of the body. It turns out that the mysterious delivery man had been to see Georgia in the past few days. The parcel remained unopened on her desk, however, because there had been so much work to be done on the big order that she hadn’t had time to open it. Sharon had shown John to the office, at his request, and he spent several moment examining the parcel. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. Obviously, there was no return address. However, there was no recipient’s address noted on it, either. The box itself was cube-shaped and just large enough, John noticed, to hold a human head.

“The man who delivered this parcel,” John began, gesturing to the box. “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” said Sharon. John waited for her to elaborate.

“Can you describe him?”

“Yeah, blond, sort of creepy, and a bit taller than you,” she said, eyeing John. “Not too much, though.”

Sharon’s description fit in with the others he had received, so there was no doubt in John’s mind that it was the same person.

“Why was there a number carved into her, Mr. Watson?”

“I’m not sure.”

For a second he contemplated adding that that was one of any number of details about which they had no idea, but quickly thought better of it.

“Her family’s gonna be devastated.”

“Who’s her next of kin?”

“Her husband, I’d imagine. His name is Kevin. I’ve got his number in my mobile, if you’d like me to--”

“That’s alright,” said John. “It’d be best if we went over and spoke with him in person. Thank you for your help.”

Sharon nodded and produced a handkerchief from one of her pockets, with which she dabbed at her eyes.

Sherlock and Lestrade emerged from the kitchen just as John stood up from the table. He could see that Sherlock was distracted. John didn’t fancy the thought of making the notification on his own. He approached Lestrade.

“Coworker says the husband’s next of kin. What did Sherlock get from the body?” John asked, his voice dropping down to a whisper as he noticed Sharon looking at them from her seat at the table.

“Cause of death was asphyxiation, and the deceased had a number carved into her skin, just like the others. Also, the cut was made by the same knife as the others,” said Lestrade.

“Anything else?” 

“Sherlock reckons the killer’s finally given us a scrap of information. From the angle of the ligature mark, he deduced that the person who killed Ms. Walker, and the others, is shorter than 5’10” tall.”

“He’s never left any sort of clues before,” said John, after taking a moment to absorb what Lestrade had told him.

“I know.”

“‘Sort of creepy’ blond delivery man was here in the past few days as well,” John said, making quotation marks with his fingers to accompany the first three words.

John showed Lestrade into Georgia’s office where the parcel still sat unopened on the desk. It was most likely immaterial to their investigation, aside from the man who had delivered it. However, he found himself feeling a bit glad she had never opened it. All the others parcels had contained something distressing to the recipient.

“At least the descriptions have been consistent,” said Lestrade.

“True.”

Sherlock and John accompanied Lestrade to make the notification. None of them spoke for the duration of the car ride, although on several occasions, it seemed like Sherlock was about to say something. John reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee. He could see faint dark circles under the detective’s eyes and attributed the fact that they weren’t more pronounced to the previous night’s rest.

“Kevin Walker?” Lestrade asked, as soon as the door opened.

“Who wants to know?” was the response he received. Lestrade pulled out his ID badge and held it up. He seemed genuinely surprised to discover that it was still in his pocket. 

“We’re here about Georgia,” said Lestrade. “Are you Kevin?”

“I-- Yes. Is she alright?” Kevin asked. Lestrade pursed his lips. 

“May we come in?”

Kevin stepped aside to allow Lestrade, John, and Sherlock past him into the foyer. There wasn’t much room for the four of them in the small space, so Kevin led his visitors down a short corridor to a lavishly-furnished sitting room.

“Have a seat, please,” he said, before settling into a well-worn recliner himself. John and Lestrade sat down on the sofa, but Sherlock remained standing.

“Rather attached to our chair, aren’t we?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock--” John began.

“What makes you say that?” asked Kevin.

“Well, all the rest of the furnishings in this room are carefully coordinated, right down to the doily on the end table over there, except that chair,” said Sherlock.

“It does have sentimental value, yes, although I don’t see what sort of significance it could possibly bear, especially since your companion has yet to explain why you’re here.”

Sherlock fell silent, immediately chastened. For the half second in which he had made the deduction, he had almost forgotten about why they were there. He lowered himself into an armchair at the other end of the room.

“Apologies,” he said quietly.

Kevin nodded, and then turned his attention to Lestrade.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Georgia was found dead this morning.”

It took a long moment for Lestrade’s words to sink in, but once they did, all the colour seemed to drain from Kevin’s face. He clutched at the arms of his recliner as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He stared, horrified, at Lestrade for another long moment. 

“How?” he whispered eventually.

“Well--” Lestrade began.

“Where? By whom?” Kevin demanded, cutting him off.

“She was found in her shop this morning by a coworker.”

“Who could have done this?”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your wife?” Lestrade asked, deliberately leaving Kevin’s question unanswered. 

“No. No one. She never had a cruel word or even a mean look for anyone.”

They left not too long afterwards, as they had no more information available, and Kevin explained that a lot of phone calls needed to be made. Lestrade got in one taxi, bound for Scotland Yard, while John and Sherlock hailed another to take them back to Baker Street.

By the time John and Sherlock had arrived back at 221B, a preliminary report from Molly was already waiting for Sherlock on the table in the sitting room. He scooped up the folder and folded himself into his chair to read it, without even removing his coat.

John removed his own jacket and settled himself in front of his laptop. He was distracted from it a few minutes later as he noticed a dark shape moving out of the corner of his eye.

In one swift motion, Sherlock stood up from his chair and slid out of his coat. He began tacking photos and bits of note paper to the wall. The collection of notes and photos that had steadily grown as the case progressed nearly covered the mirror as well as the surrounding area that was within arm’s length. Once the new photos and notes had been added to the collage, Sherlock took a long look at the wall. He could feel the level of his frustration rising again. With an exasperated sigh, he sank back into his chair and continued his examination of the packet of papers from Molly.

Sherlock’s mobile rang, and he patted his pockets, halfheartedly looking for it. Once he retrieved it from his coat and glanced at the display, he noticed that Molly was calling. He nearly hung up on her in his haste to unlock the screen.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering with a ‘Hello.’

“I found ketamine in her blood, Sherlock. There were no puncture wounds anywhere on the body, so she must have ingested it,” Molly replied.

“Just like the old woman,” Sherlock muttered.

“Exactly. And the drug is chemically identical to the one found in the first and second victims’ blood. But--”

“It makes sense for the samples to match, if the same assailant killed all of them.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not why I phoned you.”

“What is it?”

“While they were all dosed with ketamine, and they were all dosed with the  _ same _ ketamine, the chemical makeup doesn’t match any known brand of ketamine on the market. He must have made it himself.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as necessary as the story progresses. Certain tags will only apply to certain chapters, and I'll be sure to make note of those at the beginning of those chapters, just in case.

Sherlock pulled his mobile away from his ear and stared at it for several seconds. He could still vaguely hear Molly’s voice issuing from the speaker. The action had drawn John’s attention, and he could feel John’s eyes on him.

“What’s going on?” John mouthed.

Sherlock shook his head and pressed the phone back to his ear.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Well, that narrowed their suspect list considerably. Nearly anyone could steal a vial of ketamine or order it from some shady corner of the internet, but it would take someone with a much more specialised skill set to make it themselves.

“Thank you,” he said and hung up.

John was still staring at him as he slid his mobile into his trouser pocket. He quickly relayed the conversation he had had with Molly.

“Is she sure?” John asked, surprise apparent in his tone.

Sherlock gave him a look.

“Sorry.”

Just then, Sherlock’s mobile rang again. He barely glanced at the display before answering.

“Lestrade, I’ve--” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. “What? How? All right. Send me the address.”

“What was that about?” John asked.

“There’s been another murder.”

“Already??”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed once.

“That will be the address.”

The taxi dropped them off only a few streets away from Scotland Yard. The boy had been found in an alley. Sherlock couldn’t help thinking that the killer was growing even bolder, striking in broad daylight, and so close to such an important hub of police activity.

“Who’s the victim?” Sherlock asked, as soon as Lestrade approached them on the pavement.

“A refuse collector by the name of Paul Franklin. Had his neck snapped within the past few hours. Body’s still warm,” said Lestrade.

“What about the--” Sherlock began.

“On the right calf.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade ducked under the yellow tape that had been strung across the entrance to the alley. Paul Franklin was seated on the ground, slumped against the side of a building. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and the number three had been carved into his right calf.

After pulling his magnifier from his pocket, Sherlock bent down to examine the wound. It had been made with the same knife as the others. However, he remembered that Georgia, the most recent victim before Paul, had also been marked with the number 3. He froze. None of the other numbers had been repeated before. He pointed that fact out to John, who quickly wrote it down in his notepad.

“Who found the body?” Sherlock asked.

“I did,” Lestrade replied.

“You?”

“Looks like his ex-wife, Lila is next of kin,” said Lestrade, avoiding the second question. “I’ll go make the notification.”

Lestrade left John and Sherlock with the crime scene technicians while he went to see Lila. A truck from the medical examiner’s office had been conveniently parked in front of the entrance to the alley.

Sherlock felt for Lestrade. The responsibility of investigating these murders had been the Detective Inspector’s from the beginning, but being the person to discover a body had to add an extra level of horror.

“Why was he here?” Sherlock murmured.

“Lestrade?” asked John. “Well, he was the one who found the body.”

“No, no. Not him. The victim.”

“Are you certain he was killed here?”

“Yes. It was a little difficult to discern at first, but he was killed in this alley. There are a few small droplets of blood on the ground near the body that aren’t present anywhere else in the area, and it’s unlikely that they would be there had he been killed in a different location.”

“He could have been working--” John began. “But then his truck would have been here, wouldn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

A patch over Paul’s left breast pocket read, “Anthony’s Waste Management.” Sherlock bent down to examine it. A few seconds later, he straightened up and pulled out his mobile, and soon had Anthony on the phone.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I was-- Yes, that one. And yes, everyone else seems to, as well. --I was wondering whether you had a few minutes to spare. I need to speak with you,” Sherlock said. “That will be fine. Now, where are you located? Okay. Thanks so much. My companion and I will be along shortly.”

“What was that about?” John asked, as Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket.

“That was Anthony. We need to find out whether Paul was working today, or on his way to work, or whatever, and Anthony’s got some time to meet with us,” Sherlock replied.

“But what did you mean, ‘That one?’ Did he recognise your name from somewhere?”

“Yes, and he thinks the photograph of me in the hat was the funniest thing he’d seen in a long time,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

Without another word, Sherlock made his way down to the end of the alley to the street and hailed a taxi. The address Anthony had given him wouldn’t be too long of a car ride, thankfully. As much as he needed the information the man could possibly provide, he was also eager to get back to analyzing the information from the last victim’s file before the new one came in.

When they arrived at the address, John paid the cabbie and followed Sherlock to a small doorway that seemed to be wedged between the two businesses on either side of it. Sherlock tried the door and pressed the doorbell when he found it was locked. A man appeared from a side room a few seconds later and unlocked the door.

“Anthony?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. And you’ve caught me on my lunch hour,” the man explained. “I always lock up when I take my break because there’s no one else to watch the office.” Sherlock said nothing. “It’s so nice of you to come.”

“It’s really not,” Sherlock replied. “I have some bad news.” Anthony frowned.

“Would you like to talk in my office?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Anthony led the way through the front office area, past several unoccupied desks and an assortment of filing cabinets, into a cramped, but organised office. He sat down in the chair behind his desk, before realising there was only one seat across from him.

“So sorry,” he said. “Let me get another chair.”

“I’ll stand,” said Sherlock.

“Are you sure? I can just--”

“Really, it’s fine. John?” Sherlock gestured to the chair.

John sat down in the chair and pulled out his notepad and glanced expectantly at Sherlock.

“You said you had bad news?” Anthony asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately one of your employees was found murdered today.”

“What? Who?”

“Paul Franklin,” said Sherlock, and Anthony’s face fell.

“He was a good man.”

“Was he supposed to be working today?”

“Yes, but--”

“Anywhere in the vicinity of Scotland Yard?”

Anthony paused and pulled a binder out of one of his desk drawers. He spent a few seconds flipping through the pages before returning his attention to Sherlock.

“Not today. And he was due to come in--” he glanced at his watch. “--a few hours ago as a matter of fact.”

“Did you phone him when he didn’t come in on time?”

“No. He occasionally had a little trouble coming in to work on time,” said Anthony, reluctantly. “I hate to speak ill of the dead.”

“Then why keep him around?” John asked.

“He was good at his job. Now, who could have done this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sherlock replied.

Less than an hour later, they left Anthony’s office and headed back to Baker Street. Once they had returned, Sherlock stripped off his coat and put it aside before immediately returning to his stack of sticky notes. He didn’t really feel the need to wait for the report from Molly.

It was still bothering him that the numbers had never been duplicated before.

_Could it have been a copycat?_ Sherlock thought to himself. He quickly eliminated that possibility, however, because Lestrade was still keeping the bit about the numbers out of the press, and he knew John was omitting it from his blog entries. It also struck him as odd that this murder had happened so soon after the last one.

The killer’s M.O. was all over the place. There was no apparent connection between the victims, who were of different sexes, ages, and races. They had also been killed in different ways, and in different places. If not for the numbers, it was unlikely that any connections could or would have been made between the murders at all.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands as he tried to will his brain to make sense of it all. Unsurprisingly, he attempts proved futile. He slowly uncovered his eyes and returned his attention to the wall of photos and sticky notes. On a whim he stood up and tacked the photos of the numbers in a row. As he had no photos of the most recent victim yet, he substituted a sticky note with the number three drawn on it.

 

2 5 1 8 3 3

 

Even with the numbers lined up next to each other, no light was shed on the situation.

John got up from where he’d been seated at the table, and crossed the room to examine the photos. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then John turned to Sherlock.

“Do you remember--”

“Probably.”

“Let me finish!”

“I’m sorry, John. Go ahead.”

“Do you remember that case with the Chinese smugglers, and the substitution cipher? What if--” John paused mid-sentence. Sherlock gaped at him.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered. “‘What if’ indeed.”

And with John’s suggestion, a bit of sense had been made. It wasn’t unheard of for a serial killer to try to communicate with the authorities through cryptic notes.

“I think you might be onto something,” said Sherlock.

“If we could figure out what book is being referred to, we can find out what this bastard’s been trying to tell us.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a manila folder. John accepted it, and thanked her, as at that moment, Sherlock was staring, transfixed, at one of his bookshelves.

“Just make sure he doesn’t run himself completely ragged,” she whispered, nodding in Sherlock’s direction.

“I’ve been doing my best,” John whispered back.

She nodded, then excused herself and returned to her own flat.

“Mrs. Hudson brought up Molly’s report,” said John, holding the folder out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the file from John and spent a few minutes reading through the paperwork. As Lestrade had said, his cause of death was a broken neck. Aside from the number carved into the calf, there were no other external wounds on the body. The tox screen had come back clean, as well. There was no need for sedatives for a sneak attack. Sherlock passed the folder back to John and returned to examining his bookshelves.

As John waited for his laptop to boot back up, he also read through Molly’s report. He didn’t fancy writing another long blog post when he had barely finished the previous one. He fished his notepad out of his trouser pocket and flipped through it until he found the past page he’d written on.

_There really isn’t all that much to post about this time around,_ he thought to himself. Since Lestrade had been keeping the numbers out of the media, it also meant that the latest development wouldn’t be mentioned in John’s blog either. Although something occurred to him as he studied his notes. Either he or Sherlock would need to ask Lestrade whether the dead man had received any suspicious parcels in the week or so before his death. He pulled out his mobile.

“Greg? It’s John,” he began, when Lestrade picked up. “No no, everything is fine. I just had a quick question for you.”

Sherlock paused in his investigation of the bookshelves and looked over at John.

“Hold on a second,” said John. He pressed something on the phone’s screen and then put it down on the table. “Lestrade? You’re on speaker.”

“What’s going on, John?” Lestrade asked.

“When you spoke to the ex-wife, did you ask whether our mystery delivery man had been to see Paul before his death?” said John.

“They weren’t living together, but she did give me his address. I went over there and the landlord opened his mailbox for me. There weren’t any packages in it, but a lot of letters, as if he hadn’t checked the mail in some time. So it’s doubtful,” Lestrade explained.

John hung up with Lestrade a few minutes later, and returned to his laptop, while Sherlock went back to staring intently at his bookshelves.

Occasionally, Sherlock would pull a book off of one of the shelves and flip through it, murmuring to himself. He placed the majority of them back in their spots on the shelves, although a small stack had begun to appear on his chair.

“Would you like me to--” John began.

“That’s alright, John,” said Sherlock, interrupting him.

John shrugged one shoulder and returned to his blog entry.

Once he’d finished looking through one set of bookshelves, Sherlock moved the pile of books from his chair to the end table. He opened the first one and simultaneously pulled the stack of sticky notes towards him.

The flat was soon filled with the sounds of pages turning and Sherlock’s scribbling, combined with the sound of John’s typing.

It took Sherlock less than an hour to work through the books he’d selected from the first set of shelves. The numbers were only single digits, so it wasn’t possible for them to refer to page numbers, and specific words on said pages. For the time being, Sherlock was simply reading through the tables of contents, and writing down the first word of each chapter name that corresponded to a number. If a book didn’t have named chapters, he’d closed it and moved on to the next one.

The table in front of him was littered with sticky notes, both crumpled and intact. Most of them bore nonsense phrases.

 

 2                5               1               8              3               3

The            An             He           When          If               If

Early        Historic       The         Armada      Was           Was

Forensic   Latent          In            From       Never         Never

  
  
Sherlock sighed. He’d thought they’d made some manner of progress. However, he felt just as confused and even more frustrated than before. He stood up and paced from one end of the room to the other, muttering to himself as he went. Every few laps he paused to look at the wall of photos. He stopped pacing after a few minutes, and strode over to the second set of bookshelves. He wasn’t too fond of the idea of proceeding as he had with the books he’d chosen from the first set of shelves. 

As Sherlock stared at the bookshelves, John finished his blog entry and placed the folder on the stack across the table from him. Sherlock looked over at him, then at the stack of folders, then back to him.

Without a word, Sherlock abandoned his bookshelf mission and returned to the wall of photos. He began plucking a few of the sticky notes off of the wall. Then he sat down and spread them out on the table in front of him

“John!” he exclaimed a few minutes later.

“What is it?” John replied, after nearly jumping out of his chair.

“It’s the names, John.”

“What?” John got up from where he had been seated at the table to stand next to Sherlock.

“The cipher was made up of the victims’ names.”

On the table in front of him were twelve sticky notes.

 

2     5     1          8     3     3

G     O     T         Y     O     U

  
 


	13. Chapter 13

“What does it mean?” John asked.

“It can’t be,” Sherlock murmured. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the line of sticky notes on the table. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

John said nothing, and simply settled himself in his chair and waited for Sherlock to elaborate. He knew prodding would get him nowhere. Sherlock would explain when he was good and ready. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like Sherlock’s revelation, even though it seemed likely that said revelation would bring the murders to an end. Then Sherlock and every other person who had been working on the cases could finally rest. He could see the effects that the lack of consistent sleep was having on Sherlock, who was used to operating on less sleep, as well as Lestrade, who was not. He hadn’t seen much of Molly lately, but he was sure the she, too, was exhausted. He could only wonder how the various members of the crime scene unit were being affected.

“I… was grasping at straws when it first came to mind. It wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere,” Sherlock said, as though he were trying to convince himself.

“You having an idea about something didn’t make it happen,” John replied. He had a feeling that Sherlock was about to start blaming himself for whatever conclusion he’d just come to.

“Jim Moriarty was supposed to have died on that rooftop, John. But it was him. He was behind all of this.” He spoke slowly, as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

John got up from his chair, and walked over to put his arm around Sherlock. He couldn’t fathom how Jim Moriarty could still be alive.

After Sherlock’s return, he had recounted everything that had happened on the rooftop to John. It hadn’t happened right away. He’d never asked, only let Sherlock explain in his own time, at his own pace. John didn’t let his desire to know what had happened outweigh his knowledge of the fact that Sherlock would need time to heal. So, he waited, and he listened. From Moriarty’s admission that there was no computer code that could gain him access to anywhere, to the point where he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

_You don’t come back from that_ , John thought to himself. The odds of surviving a point-blank gunshot wound to the head, while not quite astronomical, were by no means in favour of the recipient.

Motion to John’s right distracted him from his thoughts. He stepped aside as Sherlock got up from his chair. He watched as Sherlock picked up the twelve sticky notes from the table and affixed them to the center of the mirror. Then he began to gather the pages from various autopsy reports into neat little piles. John sensed that he was trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Why don’t you have a shower? Try to relax a little bit,” John suggested.

“We have to phone Lestrade.”

“If this is Moriarty, then--”

“It _is_ him, John.”

“Let me finish,” John insisted.

Sherlock said nothing.

“If this is Moriarty, then somehow he’ll know that you’ve figured it out, and he’ll probably wait for you to make a move before he does anything else.”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock admitted. “Fine. I’ll be back in a few.”

“That’s the spirit,” said John, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock hauled himself out of his chair and made his way into the bathroom. He closed the bathroom door behind him, but didn’t bother to lock it. Then he turned on the water, shucked off his clothes, and stepped under the spray. Sherlock tried to quiet his mind and focus only on the sound of the water. However, it was much more easily said than done. He found it extremely difficult to believe that Moriarty was the one behind the murders, but that was where the evidence had led him. It made sense to him now.

The inconsistencies in the M.O., the lack of connections between the victims; they were all things that Moriarty would have come up with. Even though he had figured out the culprit, he still couldn’t fathom the motivation. In their past dealings, Moriarty had never been one to kill by his own hand. Sherlock thought back to their run-in at the pool where Carl Powers had died.

“Don't be silly,” Moriarty had said. “Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty.”

_Why the change_? Sherlock thought to himself.

By the time Sherlock got out of the shower ten minutes later, he did feel noticeably calmer. He had just put his clothes back on when he noticed something red out of the corner of his eye. He turned to face the mirror, and found that the words “GOT YOU”  had been scrawled on the mirror, along with a rudimentary drawing of a clock. Sherlock rushed out of the bathroom to ask John about the writing, only to find the sitting room vacant.

John’s laptop was on the floor, still powered on, and several of the manila folders had been knocked off the table as well, their contents strewn across the floor near the table. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed John’s number, only to have it go straight to his voicemail. Then the realisation of what must have happened hit Sherlock like a freight train.

_The message_ , Sherlock thought to himself, before hurrying back into the bathroom. The time on the clock appeared to read eight o’clock. Sherlock glanced at his watch. _Six o’clock_ , he thought.

The clock was a deadline, Sherlock quickly realised. It meant he had two hours to find John.

_Before what_?

No, he wouldn’t let himself think about that. He had to find John and put an end to this once and for all. He thought he’d come out on top after the Fall, outsmarted Moriarty, and survived their little game. But it was looking like Moriarty had done the same thing.

_But how_? Sherlock thought. He’d watched Moriarty put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. _There’s no time for that now_ , he chastised himself. _I’ll just ask him when I find him_.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the mirror. There was no obvious indication of where Moriarty had taken John. At first glance, it seemed like the message on the glass had been written in blood. Upon closer inspection, however, it seemed to be written with some kind of blood-red crayon-like substance. Carefully, Sherlock placed a fingertip against the edge of one of the letters, and brought his fingers up close to his nose.

_Lipstick_ , he realised, after spending a few seconds ransacking different areas of his mind palace.

Sherlock sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, and studied the red smudge on his finger. Moriarty must have assumed that the lipstick itself would serve as a clue.

_Irene Adler_.

The bright red lipstick was something he associated almost exclusively with the Woman, but he couldn’t see what role she could possibly have in all of this. He was certain that she had essentially gone into hiding after the last time he’d seen her. And she may have had questionable ethics, but there’s no way he could see her supporting the idea of murdering six innocent people for--

_For what, though_?

That was the one thing he still couldn’t figure out after pondering it in the shower. Why would Moriarty go to the trouble of murdering six people by his own hand? That had never been his style.

Sherlock shook his head, as if to jar the thoughts from his mind. He knew he didn’t have time to focus on ‘Why?’ He needed to figure out where Moriarty had taken John. He considered phoning Lestrade, but quickly decided against it. It would take too long to explain everything, especially since he needed Lestrade to actually believe him. No, this was something he needed to figure out on his own.

He needed to think logically about this. Moriarty must have planned to kidnap John. Therefore, he needed to have somewhere quiet and secluded to bring him.

Another dot that Sherlock still wasn’t able to join was Irene Adler. There was no perceptible connection he could find as to what she could possibly have to do with any of it. He was sure there was no way she was even in the country.

_That’s it_! Sherlock realised, standing up suddenly. With Irene Adler out of the country, it was possible that her old flat was vacant.

Sherlock quickly put on his shoes before snatching up his mobile and his coat, and hurrying out of the flat and down to the street. The weather was cool, but the sky was deceptively clear. Sherlock thought to himself that it would be much more fitting for the sky to be full of clouds.

As Sherlock raised his hand to hail a taxi, a thought occurred to him. He turned around and walked back up into the flat, and all the way up to John’s bedroom. He crossed the room to John’s bedside table and began rummaging through the drawers. After a few second he located John’s handgun. He slid the magazine out of the gun, and replaced it after making sure it was loaded. If he could get out of this without using it, he would, but he would much rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. He debated for a moment how best to carry the gun before simply deciding to tuck it down the back of his trousers. He rushed back downstairs and outside.

Finally, a car stopped, and Sherlock clambered into the backseat. He gave the driver the address, and stared distractedly out the window. After a few minutes his mobile began to ring, and he groped for it in his pockets. When he noticed that the display read ‘Lestrade,’ he spent a short moment deciding whether or not to answer the call.

“Now isn’t a good time, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, working to keep his voice even.

“But Sherlock, what about the--”

“Later. I’ll explain everything to you later,” Sherlock assured him, before ending the call and sliding his mobile back into his pocket.

The scenery outside the car seemed to be going by in slow motion. Sherlock knew it wasn’t true, but the fear was playing tricks on him. He tried his best to push the thoughts from his mind, with little to no success.

At what seemed like long last, the taxi pulled up outside of Irene Adler’s old address. Sherlock paid the driver and stepped out of the car. An odd feeling materialised in the pit of his stomach and he stared up at the pristine white stone of the building.

Sherlock charged up the front steps and tried the front door. He was both relieved and confused to find that it was unlocked. It had been some time since Irene Adler had called the flat home, and the house had since been stripped of furniture. He moved from the foyer into the sitting room, only to find that it was unoccupied. The area of the wall that had previously been occupied by the safe had been reduced to a jagged hole in the wall. The other rooms on the ground floor were similarly empty, although Sherlock had found a slightly-yellowed newspaper on the floor of the kitchen that was only a few months old. Without bothering to take a look at it, he made his way back into the foyer. He drew John’s gun and headed up the stairs.

At the end of the corridor, he saw John. He was bound to a chair, and gagged. Sherlock hurried down the corridor, into what used to be Irene Adler’s bedroom. He knelt beside John, and set the gun down on the floor.

“Oh, John; I’m so glad you’re alright,” Sherlock said, as he removed the gag.

“Sherlock, no!” John shouted.

Just then, the gun was snatched from the floor, and the bedroom door slammed.

“I was wondering when you were going to turn up,” said an all-too-familiar voice from behind Sherlock.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Step away from him, Sherlock,” said the voice. “And turn around.” 

Sherlock did as he was told and found himself face to face with Jim Moriarty.

The consulting criminal had John’s handgun pointed at Sherlock, and a huge self-satisfied smirk on his face. He seemed to study John’s handgun for a moment. Then he slid the magazine out, and tossed it and the now-empty gun to opposite sides of the room. He pulled out an ornately-engraved pistol.

“A ‘Welcome Home’ gift, from my lovely sniper,” Moriarty explained, holding it up to the light. “I gave him the day off today. Said I could handle you two on my own.”

“Listen you--” John began, letting his sentence trail off as Moriarty pointed the pistol at him.

“Now, now. It’s quiet time, Doctor Watson,” said Moriarty.

“Why did you do this?” Sherlock demanded. 

Moriarty turned his attention to Sherlock, and simultaneously lowered the gun. His eyes seemed to get a far-away look in them for a moment.

“I wanted you to know I was still around, of course! While I was gone, I had a lot of downtime to think about how to do it. I wanted you to know, but I didn’t want to just point it out. No, you had to figure it out.”

“So you killed six people?” John snapped.

“What did I tell you?!” Moriarty shouted, pointing the gun at John again.

John pursed his lips, but fell silent. He really wasn’t interested in Moriarty’s reveal speech. He’d heard enough from him during the car ride over. He focused instead on trying to get some blood flow back into his arms, which were tied behind his back. As John flexed his wrists, he felt one of the knots shift. An idea began to formulate itself in his mind. He tugged slightly at the ropes around his wrists again, and definitely felt the knots loosen a bit. He carefully set to work trying to free himself. 

_ Hopefully before one of us escalates the situation _ , he thought to himself. It seemed to be the inevitable outcome, and he didn’t like odds, with both he and Sherlock unarmed, while Moriarty was waving the pistol around.

“I thought about just showing up at your flat again. But I couldn’t take the chance that you hadn’t gone back, so I had to watch you for awhile. I could tell you were bored. So one night, I cooked up a solution to both of our problems,” Moriarty explained.

“Proud of yourself?” asked Sherlock.

“Of course. And you’ve got to admit, this was more fun than if I’d shown up at Baker Street with a pie, and asked if you had anything in.”

“Fun,” Sherlock began, feigning a pensive look. “Not quite the word I would use.”

John continued to work at the ropes around his wrists. From what he could tell, he was nearly free. He glanced down at his feet, where his ankles were bound to the legs of the chair. The knots looked simple enough to untie, once he got his hands free. It wouldn’t take him long to untie his legs if he could just get his hands--

_ There _ , he thought to himself.

“How did you survive?” Sherlock asked. Moriarty let out a short laugh.

“I can’t tell you  _ all _ of my secrets, Sherlock,” he said.

“Fine. How did you choose your victims? Why pose as a deliveryman and bring parcels to some of them?”

Moriarty said nothing for a long moment.

“The parcels were merely a way for me to toy with them, and, by extension, you.”

Sherlock felt like he should have expected such a nonchalant answer. He also knew that that was the only answer he would be getting. It was highly unlikely that he would ever find out how Moriarty had chosen the six victims, or how he’d survived their encounter on the rooftop. The former was more pertinent to the ongoing criminal investigation, but he was also very interested in the latter. He decided that asking questions would get him nowhere fast. He needed to find a subject that Moriarty would actually want to talk about. He sighed.

“I  _ saw _ your autopsy report,” said Sherlock, changing the topic, and putting emphasis on the verb. 

“That was good, wasn’t it? I wrote it myself. The signature had to be illegible, unfortunately. It would seem a bit odd if I signed my name on my own autopsy report.”

“They wouldn’t let me into the morgue to see you after that.”

“Oh, naturally. I was a bit busy at the time.”

John slipped his hands out of the ropes around his wrists. He tried to catch Sherlock’s eye without saying anything. He hoped Sherlock would be able to deduce that he’d freed his hands, and understand what he needed him to do.

As Moriarty continued to pontificate, Sherlock finally glanced at John. He could tell that John had managed to untie his wrists. He took a few seconds to catalogue his surroundings. No doubt John had cooked up some sort of escape plan.  His suspicions were confirmed when John gave him a very subtle nod, which he returned.

Before Moriarty could react, Sherlock knocked his legs out from under him with a sweep of his own leg. Moriarty hit the floor like a bag of bricks. The pistol slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor a few feet away. Amidst the confusion, Sherlock kicked the gun aside.

At the same time, John reached down to untie his ankles. His heart pounded in his ears as he rushed to collect the parts of his handgun. With both parts in his hands, he slid the magazine back where it belonged, chambered a round, and pointed the gun at Moriarty. 

“Even more interesting,” he said from his position on the floor. “I thought this would be the course of action you’d choose.” He started to reach for the pistol.

“Don’t,” said John, his voice low and dangerous. Moriarty continued to reach for his gun. The sound of a gunshot pierced the air as John pulled the trigger.

The bullet entered the floorboards between Moriarty’s outstretched hand and the pistol. Splintered bits of wood scattered across the floor in a small radius around the hole. Sherlock’s hands reflexively shot up to cover his ears.

“Leave it,” said John. "Stand up. Slowly.”

Moriarty obliged, and cautiously got to his feet. Sherlock bent down to pick up the pistol, and moved to stand next to John. The tension in the air was thick as Moriarty and John stared at each other.

One corner of Moriarty’s lips twitched upwards in a slight smirk. Then he lunged at Sherlock. Once again the sound of a gunshot rang out. The second time, the bullet buried itself in Moriarty’s skull. 

John placed the handgun on the seat of the chair he’d been bound to, and bent down to check Moriarty for a pulse.

_ Just in case _ , he thought to himself.

Finding nothing, he stood up and looked at Sherlock, who was still holding the pistol, and staring, horrified, at his own hand. John unfolded Sherlock’s fingers from the grip of the pistol and placed it on the chair next to his handgun.

“John, I--” Sherlock began.

John cupped his hand around Sherlock’s face.

“Sit down. I’ll phone Lestrade,” he said, moving the guns to the floor.

Sherlock nodded, and lowered himself into the chair. After a few minutes, his hands stopped shaking, and he looked down at Moriarty’s body. Several conflicting emotions clouded his brain, and he quickly looked away. 

As John waited for Lestrade to pick up, he bent down again to check for a pulse. Again, he found nothing. He reached forward to close the eyes, and straightened up as his call finally went through.

“Lestrade?” John said into his mobile. “There’s… There’s been a major development. We need you down here, at uh-- Irene Adler’s old address.”

“‘Major development?’” Sherlock asked from behind him. “That’s quite the understatement, John.”

“He said he’d be here soon.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and turned to walk out into the corridor. He headed downstairs to the foyer, with John close behind him.

Neither of them spoke again until Lestrade climbed the front steps and joined them.

“The hell’s gone on?” Lestrade asked.

“We’ve found your killer,” said Sherlock, turning to approach the stairs.

  
  


Two hours later Sherlock and John were seated in Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard. Lestrade hadn’t asked them for details right off the bat once they’d shown him to where Moriarty’s body was. He had sent them back downstairs while he phoned the forensics unit.

“How did he survive the run-in you had with him on that rooftop, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me,” Sherlock replied. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.”

“Well, what  _ did _ he tell you?”

“That he concocted his murder spree in order to convey to me that his was still alive, and that he forged the autopsy report you have on file.”

“That’s all?”

“Most of the discussion consisted of him stroking his own ego,” said John.

Sherlock also spent several minutes recounting how he’d figured out the cipher, although he did mention that John was the one who’d suggested the possibility of the numbers being a cipher. He also described how John had been abducted, and the message that had been left on the mirror.

Once Sherlock finished speaking, Lestrade looked at him, and then at John, and back again.

“Which one of you shot him?” he asked.

John glanced over at Sherlock.

“It was me,” said Sherlock, quietly.

Sherlock fell silent, and John took over, explaining to Lestrade what had gone on in the bedroom, from when Sherlock had discovered him tied to the chair, until Lestrade showed up. 

The entire time John was speaking, Lestrade was writing down what he was saying. He found it unbelievable that Moriarty had been the one behind the murders, but it was true, regardless. 

_ A double suicide in which neither participant actually died. Unbelievable, _ he thought to himself. He pushed the thought from his mind. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on when I phoned you earlier?” he asked, turning his attention to Sherlock.

“Would you have believed me?” Sherlock replied. “There wasn’t time.”

Lestrade said nothing. He still found it hard to believe, but he would have found it even more so, had he not seen the body and the evidence for himself.

“If the forensics check out and support your version of the story, which, I’m sure they will, we can close the book on this for good,” said Lestrade. “The two of you can go home for now. We may need to speak with you again in the next few days.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, earnestly. He rose from his chair, and John followed.

“I’ll phone you if anything comes up,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock nodded, and he and John left the office together. He reached out to take John’s hand as they waited for the elevator.

Lestrade placed all of his notes into the file labelled ‘Moriarty, James.’ He stood up, and returned the folder to its place in the filing cabinet, and slammed the drawer shut with what he hoped was an air of finality.

Right as he settled himself back into his chair, the phone on his desk began to ring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who made it this far! This story was originally written as a gift. I started writing it in October of 2014, and finished it in November 2015. It's been such a long haul, but I had so much fun with it. 
> 
> A great big thank you to my wonderful beta readers; deerwegoagain and eggroll-is-eggroll (who also gave me a simple writing idea that sparked the entire plot). Without you guys, this story never would have been what it is. I'd also like to thank all of my friends for being there for me throughout this entire project. I almost gave up so many times, but they wouldn't let me.
> 
> Anyway, that's the end of this story, and I hope you've enjoyed it. c:
> 
> Az


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